Addiction

Slowly taking a long, deep inhale. The smoke filled his lungs. Reverberated by the wave of tranquillity sweeping over him, his eyes rolled back, a comfort provided by nicotine. Turning to his left he offered the cigarette to her. She seemed weary, perhaps even frightened. Through a little mild encouragement, the cigarette found her grasp. Carefully placing it between her lips, demonstrating her naivety through adopting the stereotypical two finger v hold of the cig, she began sucking. “it’s not a bloody ice pop” mocked the man. “You have to inhale if any smoke will ever reach your lungs.” Coughing out a mouthful of smoke in response the woman tried again, conscious of impressing the man. This time she properly breathed in. The replacement of oxygen with smoke made her feel as if her airways were restricting, as if she was going to choke. It sucked the saliva from her mouth, burned her throat, strangled her. It tasted terrible, like someone rolled various household chemicals into a convenient paper stick. She felt her lungs tighten; she felt she was breathing yet every part of her body was screaming at her to stop holding her breath, as if the inhalation of the smoke had sucked all oxygen from her system. How absurd she thought. Voluntarily inhaling burning chemicals, not only that, spending thousands a year to suck on this sickening stick.

Then, it all went away. That feeling of indignation, disgust. Gone. The thing most dangerous about that innocent little stick is not its strength against you physically but the mental games it plays. All remains of the woman’s struggle vanished. Her sore throat, gone. The lack of breath, the burning sensation, the headache. Vanished. She questioned whether she had even ever had any of those symptoms. All were instead overcome, forgotten by the calmness and clarity the nicotine provided her as it coercively passed into her bloodstream, leaving a trail of death and destruction behind it within her light pink, previously untouched, spongy lungs. To look at her boyfriend’s lungs would predict her future. Nicotine is something of an artist, painting a plush pink canvas with shades of black. Staining fingers with darkness.

Drink, drugs, they trick your brain. The nicotine rush is a small high, it doesn’t last long. But when it does hit…there is a sense of clarity, everything becomes more focused. There’s a slight buzz within your body, a feeling of euphoria. Therefore, it must be continuously reconstructed. Continually reformed to prevent you being overcome by the overwhelming blurriness of life.

The man would go home that night, most likely with the woman trailing him. He would lead her upstairs, to his bedroom. The thing about habits is once they are formed, they are very hard to break. Once sexual cravings had been fulfilled, his mind quickly became focused on a different craving, a need for a smoke, once again inviting the woman to join him. This time she artfully demonstrated a long, deep inhale of smoke. It seemed so simple now, and even more joyous. She felt a new, profound sense of comfort by the smoke, like her lungs were wrapped in a warm blanket. It even became fun. Unlike the coughs of smoke that erupted from her mouth previously that day she learnt to take her time, let the smoke gradually flow through her nostrils, out her mouth. After a little teaching from her boyfriend, she learnt how to blow rings with the smoke. She felt on top of the world, felt like the super cool badass from a movie, smoking away without a care in the world. She turned to the side. Her boyfriend’s eyes glistened. With pride, amazement? Or were they simply glassed over from the evening’s alcohol, the drugs. Nonetheless, the attention from the man made a smile form across the women’s face, satisfied she was appealing to the male gaze. In her neophyte pride she became overconfident. Experimenting further with the cigarette she took a deep drag, testing how long she could leave it before exhaling, ultimately leading her to a coughing fit. An overriding feeling of dizziness overcame her as she realised she had starved her body a little too long of oxygen. As her numerous coughs ceased, a distant voice became more clear, more comprehensible, breaking her from her dazed state. It was the man. He wasn’t checking she was ok. The man mocked, making the woman blush crimson. Her thoughts quickly turned negative. Of course, he wasn’t amazed by her, rather he was amused; she was a joke to him. Yet, despite this, she still desired his admiration, she was desperate for attention because attention brought with it a feeling of belonging. And without belonging you are just in a desolate void. Its purgatory, you have no direction. So, she tried, once again, to impress the man. This time smoking a stick filled with a something a little more expensive, something a little more dangerous. A white powder. Her mind travelled to a state of blissful oblivion.

The woman won’t ever stop visiting the man. She keeps going back. He doesn’t text, doesn’t call, doesn’t ask how her day was. But she goes back. The attention is addictive. The attention that, to an outside viewer, is completely superficial, purely motivated by the man’s cravings for sex. She still willingly craves this attention nonetheless, gaining alongside it a new kind of craving. A craving the man often experiences. That of a need for drugs. How easily the brain forgets. How easily habits are formed, quickly manifesting into addictions. Humans are so quick to forget the negatives, clinging onto any glimmers of happiness.

It is paradoxical. Drink, drugs. These substances are continually shown to be harmful but people continually use them. People are often aware of this fact, yet, it doesn’t mean the man won’t stop. The woman won’t stop. Why stop when it is these substances, these habits that bring you joy, give you an escape? Remember, the brain likes to focus on what is good, the brain likes to trick you. Addiction often acts as a curtain, covering, numbing the true root problem.