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I am a smoker by choice. Nobody has ever forced me to light a cigarette. I smoke because I like it. Maybe I even need to smoke. I know I am hooked. I blame nobody but myself. I could quit, but I don't want to. Being a smoker is part of who I am.

I started smoking when I was fourteen years old. I loved it right away. I stole my first cigarette from the suitcase of my visiting grandmother. That first smoke was wonderful and awful, all at once. It made me light-headed and slightly nauseous. My heart began to race, and I broke out in a cold sweat. I felt energized but also oddly soothed. Smoking made me feel simultaneously calm and focused. I had been around smokers all my life, and I felt ready to be initiated into the ranks. In my eyes, I had taken my first steps on the road to adulthood.

The ritual of selecting a cigarette, lighting it and taking that first drag was magical to me. It never occurred to me that I was igniting the fire of addiction. I'm not sure I would have avoided smoking in any case. In those times, smoking was accepted, even admired in some circles. Although it shocks me now, students at my high school were allowed to smoke, and even had a designated area to do so. The school didn't require parental permission, although several of us smoked with our parents' knowledge and consent. We were growing up, and smoking was simply a rite of passage.

I fully expected to be forced to quit when I joined the Army. I was delighted to discover that I wasn't expected to give up my favorite habit. On the contrary, we were given regular "smoke breaks", even in basic training. We were able to buy cigarettes at a deep discount at the PX. It almost seemed that we were being encouraged to smoke. Many people who were non-smokers when they entered the service had begun to smoke by the time they were finished with boot camp. I was surrounded by others who shared my vice, and life was good.

I confess to smoking throughout my first two pregnancies. I thought about quitting during the second, but when I consulted my doctor he told me it was a bad idea. My body, according to him, was accustomed to nicotine, and it would be dangerous to go through withdrawal while pregnant. I was happy with this advice, and resolved to ignore the dirty looks I sometimes caught from strangers. After all, I had my doctor's blessing, and that was all I needed.

After smoking for eleven years, I decided to quit. I set a date, and told my friends. They all encouraged me, but I could see they didn't

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