Smoking in My Dreams
Despite being a decade behind me, smoking still frequently visits me in my dreams. Sometimes I'm buying cartons of cigarettes, a rare luxury in the days when financial insecurity meant I never knew where my next cigarette would come from. Sometimes I'm smoking while driving, window open, the freedom of the summer wind blowing on my face.
In my dreams, smoking is always a nostalgic delight rather than the hideous addiction we know it to be. Sometimes I wake up and instinctively reach for my pack, eager for my morning smoke, before remembering that I haven't had one since my teenage son was a toddler.
Last night I dreamed that I had just bought a fresh pack, but all of the cigarettes were reversed, Fifth Element-style. The filters were the length the tobacco tube should be, and vice versa, like some cruel joke.
I'm sad to admit that I loved smoking. Or at least my addiction-addled brain convinced me that I did. It was meditative in a way. A soothing ritual at my most anxious moments. But with the good came the bad. My lungs were weak. Every time I got a cold, it led to severe bronchitis and asthmatic symptoms.
I would get so sick that sometimes I feared I would pass out due to the intense coughing. In fact, one of these particularly severe bouts of bronchitis led me to quit. I realized that if I kept smoking, the last few years of my life would likely be spent as sick as I was, and likely even worse. That was enough to scare me straight.
The fact that smoking still inhabits my dreams is a testament to its addictiveness. Even a decade later, it tries to lure me back in, using sleep's paralysis to infiltrate my senses. I still get the urge from time to time to go grab a pack, but I know I never will. Though I doubt that addiction will ever stop tempting me with the pull of nostalgia.