No Smoking

It has now been two years since I gave up smoking. I started when I was about thirteen, when my friend Caroline threatened to beat me up if I didn’t smoke with her. Lovely girl. Knowing that this was no idle threat, I capitulated. I lived in London at the time, so we’d save up our tube fare - 30p it was - to buy a box of fags between us. We’d have one before and after school, then eat toothpaste and spray ourselves with Impulse to mask the smell. Mind you, I needn’t have bothered as I lived in a pub so all my clothes stank of smoke anyway.
I was 15, I think, when I took up the habit proper, undeterred by the fact that my Granddad was dying of emphysema, had to have oxygen 23 hours a day, and nearly blew himself up on several occasions due to smoking with the oxygen tube slung around his neck.
By 16 I was on twenty a day, and at the height of my smoking days I was on thirty. I tried to give up when I was pregnant, first trying cold turkey and then smoking awful herbal fags, which were probably as harmful as the real ones, and they stunk of horse shit. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that the father of my baby wouldn’t give up, as he put it, ‘because I’m not the one who’s pregnant.’ Charming. He’s on about forty a day now, lives in Newcastle, and has seen our son once in two years.
After numerous attempts at quitting, I managed it with the help of nicotine gum. An unfortunate statistic shows that more than 90% of bipolar, schizophrenia and psychosis sufferers are heavy smokers. It turns out that nicotine actually helps to alleviate psychotic symptoms, as it improves synaptic reflexes. I tried to use this as justification for smoking, but eventually even I realised that I was doing myself more harm than good.
Two years on, I’m addicted to nicotine gum. My doctors assure me that this won’t do me any damage, and, as it helps me concentrate, I’m not too worried about it. At least I always have minty fresh breath, and I can chew in public places.