Sarah Mullen earned her Bachelor of Arts in English with a minor in writing from Portland State University in 2014. She is currently working on her Masters in Literature & Writing at California State University San Marcos. Sarah has worked in eclectic industries including substance abuse treatment, family law and construction. Her dynamic work experience has been excellent for relating to diverse groups of people, appreciating their stories, and learning how all stories are intertwined. Sarah currently lives in San Diego with her two children two and under and her husband.

Cigarettes & Silence

Sometimes I long for a cigarette. The burn of the tar as it hits my throat, sits in my chest for only seconds before being exhaled into the atmosphere. I only smoked regularly for three years. Before then, cigarettes were only known to me during a night out drinking, outside a bar, a club, a venue. An acquaintance that I ran into infrequently, but when we met, we lingered. I did not need them the same way then.

I was six days sober when I bought a pack of cigarettes that I finished on my own. In truth, a case manager bought it for me. We were allowed one trip to Walmart a week. I arrived at the center the day after. If you were new, they made a one-time exception for a cigarette run. I was new. New to treatment. New to sobriety. New to sitting still and silent. She bought me two packs of Marlboro menthols. That was all the liquor store around the corner had. No American Spirits, as if smoking organic tobacco made them better somehow. Clinicians talk about the threat of cross-addiction. Nicotine, caffeine, sex, work, an infinite number of things can come in and take over where your drug of choice’s addiction left off.

“At least I don’t do dumb things when I’m smoking,” I told my mom as she questioned another of my life’s choices. 

“I guess you’re right,” she replied.

I went from coughing before I could fully inhale, to smoking a pack a day overnight. They made us exercise three times a week. We went on walks which included a trek up a long and steep hill that overlooked the beach. The Activities Director probably concluded this would get us moving and help us take in beauty, feel things sober. I did not take in the view; I coughed and counted my steps as I needed to take frequent breaks. The alcohol was out of my system, but my body still shook, and my smoke-tainted lungs struggled to carry my weight. I did not care. I struggled uphill in the morning, and for the rest of the day I sat and smoked and reflected, trying to wish away the memories leading up to how I found myself here, out of breath, atop a hill overlooking the ocean.

Cigarettes became my respite from meetings and therapy and talking, so much talking. I sat outside on the curb waiting for the house manager to call us to the 16-seater white van and take us back to the facility. I took smoke breaks on the tiny patio out front between classes. Sitting alone, inhaling to feel the smoke in my lungs, holding in the release of tears. My whole body relaxed with the exhale, dampening the tension. I sat with the other residents, sharing our stories, retelling moments that would elicit horror in anyone besides us. Sometimes our laughs broke into coughing fits, but that didn’t hinder us from lighting another. Holding a cigarette with a glowing red tip that had faded to grey between my fingers as the women only smirked or cried or gave me sighs of identification when I said I was glad I never killed anyone driving drunk; or cringe when I think of showing up at an exes house in a blackout in the middle of the night, coming-to only to be sitting in his car crying as he drove me home; or that I tried to hide my keys from myself before I started drinking, hoping that drunk me would not have the determination to climb under my bed and find them; or that I faked nerves while making a latte in an interview because my hands would not stop shaking; or met a guy who brought his pug named Douglas to our date after we matched on Tinder because I had swiped right while wasted; or deleted texts and Facebook posts while drunk, so sober me would never have to know what I said; or stole my roommates bottle of bourbon, and when he asked me where it went I looked at him straight and told him I hadn’t seen it; going on and on until they called us in for lights out.

When I re-entered the outside world, I kept cigarettes with me. At my first sober job ,making minimum wage, I still managed enough money for my American Spirits. A pack cost $12.76, sometimes a bit less if I bought two. I sat outside the shop, away from the clanking dishes and grinding beans. I could finish two cigarettes on a ten-minute break while I sipped my four shots of espresso on ice. The brick courtyard behind the building was my spot. I sat on the ground and leaned against a vacant business front and watched people walk by, sometimes hoping someone would stop and talk, but mostly hoping they didn’t.

Living with my parents again became another reminder of all the ways I was not the woman they hoped I was. I held smoking as my signifier of a life gone wrong. I told myself it was not so bad, at least they knew where I was, I wasn’t having sex with strangers, and I could maybe keep a job, and that these would only kill me slowly. I settled for being an alive disappointment, instead of a dead one. I sat outside my childhood room in a plastic lawn chair and lit cigarette after cigarette, using an aluminum can as my ashtray. I never smoked inside. I sat on porches. I stood in alleys. I went for long, solitary walks. My world was reshaping, shifting so quickly. Taking those few minutes grounded me. Without them, I thought I might just float away.

I stood in the lobby of a church, holding a Styrofoam cup, smiling as people came up to offer congratulations. I took my six-month token and all I could think about was getting outside. I did not know what to say when people approached. Six months felt underserving of the handshakes and encouraging words. Six months felt like no time at all compared to the lifetime without drinking before me. A man came up and introduced himself.

“I have seen you around a few times, what’s your name?” he asked me. 

“Sarah.” I replied.

“Bryan.” He shook my hand. “Congrats on six months, that’s a big deal.”

“Thanks.” I accepted his words, unsure how to proceed. “And nine months. That’s great,” I continued after a pause that felt like minutes, but was probably seconds. “Well, it was nice to meet you. I’m going to go grab a cigarette.” He was friendly and I was enjoying our conversation, but I wanted to be in the back corner of the parking lot.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked. I was not expecting that. 

“Sure,” I said, slapping the pack against my hand and removing a cigarette as we walked. We sat by a dumpster for thirty minutes talking about things that were not small. And this is how we talked for months before we finally got together.

Being with Bryan was different than any relationship I had experienced. It was slow starting, with consideration and seeking to know one another. Foreign in a way that made me wonder if I had ever truly been in a relationship or just fell in and out of the lives of men, trying to force commitment where none existed. On our first official date after months of talking outside of meetings, I picked him up from the house where he was a manager. 

“Can I smoke in here?” he asked, assessing if the stale smell of ash and tar was coming from me or the car itself. 

“Yes,” I replied as I lit one for myself. Our beginning was filled with smokey car rides that ended at the beach, 7-11 to buy Slurpees, recovery meetings and secluded parking spots. I moved from one job to the next, as did he. And as we rebuilt our lives separately, it became more and more clear that we should be growing them together. The night we moved into our first place, after a long day of collecting our things from his apartment and my childhood bedroom, we sat among the unpacked boxes. So many of the memories I had been trying to wish away weren’t fresh wounds anymore. I appreciated all the scars I had acquired to get to this place. 

“Want a cigarette?” I asked him.

“Sure” was all he said.

We walked out front and sat on the curb across from our front door. I looked through the window seeing our things mingled, waiting to be rearranged and turned into a home.

Smoking stayed with me as my life stabilized. It ceased to be my oasis, but something I fit into my now full schedule. I started working at a law firm in an upscale part of town. Before the interview, I did all that I could not to smoke so the smell would not carry inside with me. I did not want their nostrils deciding before I sat down. When I was offered the job, I knew frequent smoke breaks were a nonstarter. I smoked on my lunch break, standing outside my car in the parking lot. I wore a sweater over my clothes, a doomed attempt to keep the smell off me.  I puffed away speedily, leaving as much time as possible for the scent to dissipate. I spent the rest of my break on my phone before making the slow and long walk back into the building. The serenity once associated with my smoke breaks had dissipated, leaving only anticipation for the next opportunity to fill my blood with nicotine. I thought I could stop this habit that had ceased serving me and had become much closer to me serving it.

I tried to quit. I announced to my now Fiancé that I was stopping. 

“Whatever you need to do,” he told me. I was expecting him to jump on the bandwagon. He did not. But I had said it, so now I had to do it. The symptoms hit me full force on the second day: jitters, mood swings and emotional outbursts. I found myself again not knowing what to do with my hands. I scrolled my phone and called friends in whatever down time I possessed. I never took a break at work, inhaling food at my desk while answering phones and scheduling appointments. I didn’t go outside. I didn’t sit in silence. I didn’t take time.

I tried to apply the tools I had learned to quit drinking to quit cigarettes, but my mind could not get on board. The consequences weren’t so urgent. I told myself it wasn’t that bad, it made me interesting, it reminded me I was an addict, and it might be bad for my sobriety to quit. Instead of surrendering to the process of letting them go, my not truly wanting to consumed my thoughts. I lasted four months before I started asking for a drag off a friend’s cigarette outside of meetings. Then occasionally I would ask to take one with me. We went like this, on and off for six months. Meeting again, feigning surprise, until the day came that my desire was strong and my restlessness intolerable. I asked Bryan for a cigarette. Six weeks before our wedding I started smoking regularly, not a pack a day, but enough that I had to admit to myself I was a smoker, I was powerless.

Two weeks before our wedding, I peed on a stick and stared in disbelief. I looked away, as if that would change the result. I was pregnant. My first thought was exhilaration followed by the urgency to tell Bryan. My second was that I had to stop smoking. I stood outside our wedding venue in my dress a few feet away from the smoker’s circle while my now husband enjoyed a cigarette with his friends. I talked with passersby about the night, the flowers, the decorations, and the food. But in the back of my mind, I was thinking about taking just one hit off that cigarette. One puff would not hurt anything. 

“I really want a cigarette,” I said to Bryan.

“I know you do.” He looked me in the eye, squeezed my hand, put out his still lit, half smoked cigarette in the ash tray and we walked back inside.

After we welcomed our first child, I joined a group for mothers in recovery. Some had been sober for so long that you would never believe they had problems like smoking crack outside a Denny’s dumpster. Others of us were working new moms. And some of us were long- time moms that were new to sobriety. Those women were spotted quickly. They held their cigarette or vaped up until the meeting door. I envied them so much. How could I smoke? I had a 4-week-old baby. What time was there for such indulgences? How could I step away from the crying and diapers and need? Away from the smiles and soft skin and love?

Since the day I quit, I have smoked exactly three cigarettes. Two were in the mountains with some other couples in recovery and our children. All the women went outside and sat in a circle, smoking and talking while our husbands handled the chaos inside. 

“You have everyone fooled” Ivey said to me.

“What?” I responded in genuine misunderstanding. 

“You act like you are so innocent, but you are out here with the rest of us.” 

“Who am I fooling, Ivey? I got here somehow.” I got here, a recovering alcoholic sitting with other recovering alcoholics measuring each other’s levels of depravity. Laughter broke out, but the moment hung heavy. Innocent. Who is innocent? I picked up another cigarette and tried to make it last as long as possible. When the tobacco was gone, I went inside, changed my clothes, picked up my son and held him close.

I had the third cigarette on the day I found out I was having an unwanted miscarriage of a very wanted pregnancy.  Bryan had ceased smoking and they were not easily accessible. I asked him to go buy a pack and we walked 100 feet away from our apartment, each lighting one. I inhaled, waiting for relief, but all I received was nausea and the sudden urge to take a shower. 

“This tastes terrible. It’s brutal,” Bryan said to me as he turned the stick in his hand, pushing the glowing tip onto the ground, crushing it with the sole of his shoe. I looked up at him and started to cry. He sat by me on the ground and held me. No more words were spoken. After some time passed, we silently stood up and went inside. He started the hall shower; we washed the remnants of our failed escape down the drain.

I wish I could say that was the end of my relationship with nicotine, it is not. We are still meeting from time to time, like an ex-lover only called on the loneliest days. In times of stress and pressure, when my life feels like every minute is given to my boss, my marriage, my children, my world, I vape—a cigarette’s less sexy counterfeit. It’s something I consume that is never quite what I want it to be. There is no need to disappear. No long walks. No sitting outside. No conversations with friends. No need to rid myself of its contamination. Just a quick inhale-exhale out the front door or kitchen window before I return to whatever I was doing before the urge hit.  One day, I might retreat without my electronic surrogate. Sit down. Close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Maybe then I won’t ever need a cigarette again.