A bad smell, bad breath, a frail body, a restless mind, and countless wasted dollars. My life feels like a void.
I started smoking at 15, back in my school days. It felt exciting then—something rebellious, something “cool.”
But now, at 54, the truth hits hard: I’ve lost almost everything.
I live alone in a small, dingy room in a storage building. The bike I ride? Borrowed from a friend. The car I drive? Borrowed from another.
I own nothing.
My child lives far away, the result of a divorce five years ago. I barely see them—I can’t even afford the cost of renting a car to visit.
I can’t bring myself to ask the girl I like out on a date. Not because she wouldn’t say yes, but because of the terrifying thought: what if she does? What if she asks for things I can’t provide?
And what has smoking given me? Nothing but darkness. Depression. A crippling sense of self-loathing. My confidence has vanished, along with the life I once dreamed of.
The habit I thought was harmless—a symbol of independence—has become a chain around my neck. I look in the mirror and see a man who is losing everything: his teeth, his health, his future. Half my teeth are already gone, and I know the rest will follow.
Yet here I am, walking into the same shop, buying the same pack of cigarettes, day after day. Today, yesterday, tomorrow—it’s a cycle I can’t seem to break.
I’m tired. Tired of smoking. Tired of myself.
The benefits? There are none. Just the empty shell of the person I used to be.