Lights, Please

It was the second semester of my senior year in high school–a prime time for complete teenage debauchery. My friends and I had all gotten into colleges and we were finally ready to be real human beings again. Midnight drives to nowhere, Coachella 2013 and illegal activities were of abound at this time. Somewhere in between these last months and moments before college, I had my first cigarette.

My friends and I were at the Crest, a little dirt turnabout in the Angeles Crest Forest with a terrible view of suburban lights. But this was the spot for local, angsty teens to hang out, hook up and smoke. We were regulars. One night, one of my friends handed me a cigarette, an offer that I had always turned down.

But that night felt different. I nonchalantly let the white cylinder rest between my index and middle and clicked the lighter open. As I nervously inhaled, I exhaled no smoke and instead smelled fire. I shot a confused look at my friends. Grace. What the hell. You lit the wrong end, you dumbass. Laughter broke as I dropped the pathetic, wasted cigarette. It was a sign, I thought. Don’t smoke.

Fast forward about a year and I was that sketchy kid behind the bike racks of Unit 2 smoking with my hood on and my earbuds in. Freshman year was overwhelming and I found solace in my pack of Marlboro Lights. It wasn’t the nicotine so much that soothed, but the act of smoking was more of an aesthetic armor. The more I looked unapproachable, the less I would have to interact with my overly enthusiastic peers. I mean, seriously. How many of you have said “hey” to the hooded kid smoking behind the bike racks? Exactly.

The need for the numbing nicotine kicked in when I fell in love my sophomore year. It was a coastal kind of love. A wonderful, painful and frighteningly new kind of love. I’d never flown to New York so much in my life. The craziness of NYC mirrored the chaos inside my mind and heart, and it was oddly comforting–almost as if the city was extending its sympathy to me.

When I wasn’t in New York, late nights and early mornings were spent sitting on my balcony with my headphones on. I smoked my way through packs, wrestling to feel my way around my feelings. I must’ve looked funny since I lived on the first floor. From about six feet up, I soon recognized familiar faces sprinting to their 8am classes in between the tattered, wooden fences. That was my cue to head in and take a quick two-hour nap before my class.

It was a tough year. We all know how much our first loves destroy us. I was emotionally exhausted and wanted to run away for a bit–from life, school, love, myself. Call me dramatic because I am. But, it was all too much. Though cigarettes helped to temporarily numb my emotions, I realized that they weren’t enough. I had to get out of this state–in both the physical and emotional sense. So, naturally, I went away to Dublin, Ireland and Paris, France for the next seven months.

Living in foreign countries was insanely uncomfortable and terrifying at first. I had never been to Europe before and I knew nobody there. But, it forced me to grow by being uncomfortable. It was only through stumbling through lost roads and repeating je ne sais pas that I learned more about myself. I began to unearth new, nuanced layers of my personality that I didn’t even know existed. Only through discomfort can we grow, and I realized I don’t want to be comfortable for a long time.

The smoking, of course, remained a constant. Give me a break–I was in Paris. But instead of using them to numb myself, I used it for the opposite effect. It now became a communal, social activity to meet strangers from across the globe. A singular, common pastime that provided me and foreigners a time to get to know each other despite the language barrier.

I shared my cigarettes with strangers at bars, and in exchange they shared their life stories. I smoked with my boss while working in Dublin and brainstorming marketing campaigns. My literature professor in Paris and I often had a cigarette together before class. And I shared the most special moments with my friends as we smoked in comfortable silence–our eyes mesmerized by the Pantheon, the Eiffel Tower, the beaches at Nice or the Cliffs of Moher. These memories are now tucked away in the most treasured parts of my heart and mind.

Now back in Berkeley, my cigarette breaks are held on a “real” balcony with the sweetest view of the SF Bridge. After many trials and errors, I now hold my cigarettes between my thumb and index. I’ve found that the smell won’t stick so much on your fingers this way. But, don’t let me fool you. I do still sometimes light the wrong end of my cigarette when I’ve had a little too much to drink. And whenever I feel the urge to spit, my spit ends up getting lost into the vortex of my crazy head of hair. Gross, I know.

But I’m still learning, and it’s in these embarrassing moments that I’m reminded of who I used to be–a part that never really goes away, I think, regardless of how much you change. And yes, I am aware smoking is terrible for your health, but let me live (the irony)! It’s one bad thing that’s done good for me.

Cigarettes have aesthetically helped me ward off awkward encounters, as well as temporarily numb my emotions. And they’ve acted as a bonding mechanism with new friends in foreign countries, as well as accompanied me to some of the greatest sights on this Earth. They don’t necessarily solve my problems in an instant, but what does? I have a feeling that my Marlboros will keep me company for whatever other insane life experiences lay ahead of me, and I’m excited. It was a hell of a year. I do miss my dedicated 8am-ers, though. I hope you all are well.

Images: Grace Cha