When I was 16, all of my friends began to smoke cigarettes. It was so cool. All the adults in my world smoked, and I thought it was a part of claiming my power, a rite of passage. I began to smoke, too. I had a hard time for the first several cigarettes, coughing and spitting, but it didn't take long for it to become a pleasurable experience.

I started to carry my cigarettes and matches with me wherever I went -- they became a part of me, like my glasses. I just didn't function well without them.

I smoked for 28 years with no problems. There were stories periodically on television or in the newspapers about the dangers of smoking to your health, but I didn't take them seriously. I would get a little short of breath once in a while, but for the most part, my body was extremely healthy -- I didn't even get colds often.

In 1983, as a part of my job, I was assigned to scrub down hall walls with a brush, hot water and ammonia. I spent eight hours a day in hallways with no ventilation, in a temperature of 90 degrees or more, breathing in ammonia fumes for a week. I developed bronchitis and was as sick as I have ever been.

Over the next several years, it seemed like I was in one stage or another of chronic bronchitis, and eventually became asthmatic. It was at this point in my life that cigarettes became my body's enemy.

The thought of quitting was a little scary, but I felt I had no choice. I threw away all of my cigarettes and thought, well, this is going to be hard, but I have to do it. I am a fairly strong-willed individual, and it never occurred to me that my strong will would come down on the side of smoking, instead of on the side of quitting.

I started into withdrawal, got nervous and irritated at little things and was hard to be around. It felt as if my skin was trying to take on a life of its own, making me fidget constantly. I got a hangover-type headache. I was extremely uncomfortable.

At first, I kept trying to find ways to deal with my body -- take a bath, take a nap, take a walk, take two aspirin, do anything, just make it stop. Then my mind would start. Why are you doing this to yourself? What kind of insanity is this? All you need to do to get rid of all this is have a cigarette!

And I would yell back, NO, I NEED TO DO THIS! Until, on the third day, I hit the WALL. I am sorry to say that in all the times I have gone through this routine, I have never been able to conquer the wall. I become obsessed with getting a cigarette. I make bargains with myself. You can have a cigarette if you just have one. No, that won't work. Have a cigarette before you go to bed, then you can pretend you didn't when you wake up. No, no. Have a cigarette to calm you down, it will make it easier to make it through and help you quit. No.

Eventually, I move into a place where nothing else matters. I want a cigarette more than I want anything else in the world. I get angry at the people around me. They are saying awful things to me, such as, "I am so proud of you," or "I'm so glad you have quit smoking." I want to scream at them I am hurting inside, but I hide; I can't let them know. They will watch me and I will never be able to get a cigarette.

Every minute becomes torture until I give in and light up. Then the lies start, smoking in the bathroom and in the car riding around by myself. I feel so awful, so deceitful. I fill up with self-anger, humiliation and shame.

I project this anger at those around me who I love and who love me. In my pain, I see myself as having to give up something I love because everyone else is afraid.

My lungs are struggling to breathe now. I have a hard time controlling my asthma, as the cigarettes are a continual irritant. I want to be able to walk more than a block with having to stop and catch my breath. I want to walk up a hill or a flight of steps without fear. I want to dance, sing, play catch, pick up a baby and be capable of living an active life.

I have to face this WALL again. I am not looking forward to it, but sometime this weekend I am going to smoke my last cigarette, put on a nicotine patch and try again.

I have thought about how to tell the people I love how to help me. What makes the things they say to me so difficult? One realization is that by praising me and expressing their investment in my struggle, there is a subtle shift in my perception. I begin to see this as no longer an inner struggle with myself but rather something that I have to do for them. It sets up the final battle to be me against them; and with me in control, guess who is going to win?

What do I need? I need others to tell me I can do this. I need to be told that they understand how difficult this is for me. I need them to make me talk about what I am feeling, even when I am reluctant. I need them to offer to get me cigarettes if that's what I want, so I know I am the one I am fighting here, not someone else.

I need them to realize I am grieving the loss of something that has been apart of me for 37 years, and there is a great big part of me that will be angry if they act as if we have something to celebrate.

I need not to lie. I have promised myself I will not lie and hide in shame again. I need the support of those around me if I smoke another cigarette. I need to be in control of this process.

If you should come across me sitting on a wall, or a bench or under a tree somewhere on campus smoking a cigarette, tell me to try again, tell me not to be discouraged or tell me I can do it. If you come across me somewhere looking stressed out and not smoking -- tell me to hang in there.