People, based on my observation, are comfort seekers. We may claim to be independent but we anchor our concept of “independence” from comforts or needs - real and perceived. Stripped of these and we are mere nekkid dependents to our desires to be rich, famous, special, important, relaxed, organic, healthy, hot, superior, powerful. The things and toys we buy are mere affirmations to our desires. Somehow, no matter how warped it may seem most of the things that we need and want are actually legitimate and reasonable. It’s the excesses that make a difference though.

Exactly a decade ago, I was reviewing for my lab test for Zoology 101. Having really no interest in memorization I found it difficult to make the muscular anatomy and terminologies they stand for of the toad I had just dissected stick in my mind. Mnemonics was futile. I had to pass my test. The respect of my parents depended on it. Being always in the shadow of Tanduay Girl has set a high bar and reaching (if not undoing) that bar is a comfort for me.

I was in a lost phase. Taking a course I never really wanted and taking it in a university where parental control is nonexistent made me confused and off track. I needed to comfort myself and get it together. And on that same afternoon I went out and lit my first cigarette. The taste and the effect of nicotine on my raw nerves was like Vicodin to someone in serious pain. The stress was muted and I felt like an actress in a 50’s movie - calm, cool, collected. Meth, alcohol, ganja, acid never had “good” effects on me or any effect that has gotten me hooked.

Cigarettes have been my companion in both the highs and lows of my life. When I felt hunger pangs but only had ten pesos in my pocket with no other money coming in for the next three days I’d smoke my hunger away. When I felt hurt, angry, and crying my eyes out over lost love I let the

nicotine soothe my emotions until I pick up the pieces of my brokenness again and then I smoke. When I’m happy and chilling with my friends we’d camp in the Smoking Section of any place and trade stories. When I gain weight, I smoked. When I lose weight, I smoke more. When stress accosts me and bring me to unfathomable levels of fear, doubt, and paranoia I smoke to get a grip and focus on work to be accomplished. I’ve smoked in the most boring moments of my life to the most keyed instances. I smoke after eating, before running, after swimming, before leaving, when on break. And so I made myself an addict.

But like all things, the novelty of smoking turned to disdain. My panacea has become a pain. My clothes smell like nicotine and that’s just a small side effect out of the plentiful. The most is the feeling of grossness after a few puffs. The taste does not relax me anymore even if I smoke two in a row. And when I’ve smoke a stick my mind grouses that I should quit.

Of course I’ve quit. Quitting is so easy Mark Twain did it a million times. But then I’ve always slid back to lighting a stick after a week or a few more that I’ve stopped. And every time I start again, the whining in my head gets louder.

And so as I turn 30 in thirteen days I’ve decided to stop seeking false comforts on cigarettes. Seriously. For real. Today is my first day on the patch. What I didn’t expect are the reactions given to me by this square transdermal patch. My smoking friends have given me high fives and one laughed at me. But I think the non-smokers are more cruel. They would rather I go cold turkey even if I’ve explained it I’ve done it before and over and over I've failed. In my room I’ve been flipping over the pamphlet I got with the Nicoderm box and I can’t find the page where it talks about bracing myself from the reactions a patch would elicit.

I’m not bragging. That’s why I’ve placed it at the uppermost of my left arm (tomorrow I’ll put it on my back) hidden by my shirt's sleeve. Neither am I gloating. I mean, c’mon one day of not smoking is not comparable to a decade of lighting up. A part of me is very much guarded. I run away when I smell even the faintest of cigarette smoke. There is no craving, though, perhaps because I don’t want to embarrass myself but also I can still taste the last cigarette I’ve smoked (which is yucky) and it still feels cottony in my mouth.

Sometimes it's not the excesses of our desire to be comforted that is wrong. When our desires already define us that leads to the wrong habits yet not even satisfy would makes it more illicit. For some it becomes more desirable, but for the most it's dreadful. And maybe not everything illicit can be ended, but the things than can be should be. And this small triumphs are actually conquests that can help gain victory in harder arenas.