I was young. Probably not more than twelve or thirteen years old. I'd been taught all my life that I shouldn't smoke, drink or do drugs. I'd even practiced role-playing how I'd say no if I was ever offered any of those things.
And then I smoked. I don't remember who offered me the cigarette, but I took it and I puffed. I coughed, but I took another puff and then another. I held it between my index and middle finger, the way glamorous people did and I finished the cigarette. I dropped the butt on the ground and gave it a good twist with my foot, just like I'd seen other smokers do.
And then I was horrified. I felt sick to my stomach and my heart ached. I imagined how disappointed my parents would be when they discovered what I'd done. I felt intense shame. I worried that now I was addicted to nicotine. How could I have done such a thing? I knew better.
I cried. And I think it was the real tears that probably woke me up. And then I cried tears of relief that it was only a dream and I hadn't really smoked that cigarette. I wouldn't have to repent and confess after all. I wasn't addicted.
I still remember how that dream felt and I never wanted to feel that way again.
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In 8th grade a girl asked me to go smoke with them. I said no but before the end of class she asked again and said they'd be behind the portables if I wanted to join them. Hmmm....would have been pretty easy to walk behind those portables and give it a try. Thank goodness there wasn't one little bit in me that was interested in that. Scary.