Writing not smoking

It’s been over a week now since I quit, and the nighttime urge to smoke has finally passed. Still, I miss the habit. The ritual. The bedroom comfort of it all.

Pregnant women are treated as evil if they dare admit their cravings – whether for a cigarette, a drink, or something stronger. Do I care? No. If I don’t talk about it with some form of accountability, I’ll just end up using again, and likely far uglier than before.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m a marijuana addict. I’ve dabbled in most substances, had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol, and cigarettes – though disgusting in so many ways – always had me in a chokehold.

In 2020, I smoked my last cigarette and “upgraded” to disposable vapes (the biggest mistake of my twenties). By early 2024, I was chain-smoking tobacco again. My teeth yellowed and shifted, my singing voice disappeared, and the money I wasted could have changed my life.

Now that I’m sober, I can actually do the maths.

I bought a vape a day for four years – about £29,200. I smoked tobacco on and off from 2014 until late 2025. A pouch a fortnight for roughly six years comes to £17,520. Add filters, lighters, papers, roach cards… I’ve burned through over £50,000 on nicotine alone. And that doesn’t even include weed.

Seeing those numbers makes me sick. I could have paid off my student loans or put a deposit on a house in London. Instead, I paid for my own slow destruction.

What I’m learning from MA meetings is that quitting isn’t enough. Recovery means radical ownership of the addict’s mind – light and dark. I can’t undo the past. I’ll need to make amends to people I’ve hurt. And I’ll need to parent myself before I can parent my child.

Today, I am an addict. I will be until the day I die. But I have a choice: I can shame myself to sleep, or I can accept who I am, look forward, and give my inner child – both the spiritual and the literal one growing inside me – the care and clean slate we both deserve.

I’m not perfect. I’m trying. Day 9.