When I was 14, I found a pack of Winstons in the media console in my Dad's car. For my entire life, he was the biggest protester of smoking. Always trying to smear the "cool" images my siblings and I had in our heads as we waved our pretzel sticks in between our small fingers. Whenever we were at a restaurant, he demanded we be seated in the non-smoking section. It came as a complete and utter shock as to why he had packs in his car. How could my father, one of my personal heroes, feed into the tobacco industry? Especially after all he had preached to us when we were little. At the time, I couldn't understand it, how a man who suffered from an addiction wanted to steer everything he cared about away from his greatest vice. From that moment on, sitting in my parents' bedroom, sobbing on the blanket chest from being lied to all my life, I vowed never to smoke a cigarette.

It took me about five years for me to fathom putting a small stick full of toxic chemicals up to my lips and breathe it into my lungs for the tar to coat my bronchioles.

Cigarettes always smelled good to me, and one night I finally caved. A guy I was talking to at a party had one in his hand, and a drunk me naturally inclined to his offer. The friends I was with were disgusted, and to admit, I was too. But the smooth flavor of the tobacco filled my mouth. The woody essence that I find appealing in whiskey sat the same at the back of my throat. I actually liked it. I felt as if this small inhalation was my rebellion I had never experienced in my high school years. No one had to know, it was a one-time drag, and it never happened again—until I bought a pack.

I bought the pack when I was drunk; opened it when I was drunk; and smoked it when I was drunk. I didn't even smoke the whole thing. (And that's no excuse.) Normally, there were emotions behind each cigarette. The first one was thrill, the second rejection, and the third for solace. Smoke wrapped around me like my father's hugs. All I was seeking was human comfort, and somehow smoking a cigarette made me feel closer to anyone. But in fact, it made me further from everyone. As much as my father's affection was held in the scent of the death stick in my hand, I felt so unattractive. So isolated and shamed when a walker would cough as they passed by, which I had done myself innumerable times. Often, I never finish the cigarette in my hand. Most times, I became so disgusted with myself, I'd throw it to the ground and grind it with my shoe to show nicotine who's boss. Declaring to the world that I will listen to my father and never again poison my body.

Every time I took one out of the pack, a part of me died. Literally and figuratively. A part of my soul that promised my Mom I never would put such a small killer to my lips would cease to exist. It was so unattractive and I hated the way I looked doing it, but something about a warm cigarette when you were cold or chatting with some friends was so nice. However, the light needed to be put out. As nice as it was to stand in a circle with friends and talk, I could do that without the chemicals burning between my fingers.

I know I never smoked a pack a day, let alone a whole pack, but the temptation will always be there. It is the temptation of wanting something that makes you feel so good; but at the same time, it is slowly killing you. Maybe some of us can accept the long-lasting effects. What I think my father was trying to do when I was little was to never let us know how good that temptation felt, so we never had to decide between our health and our happiness.