Just like the fresh pack of unopened Newports, the deal I had made was sealed. There was no going back on the deal because its illegal to return a pack of cigarettes in Delaware once you've left the store; but its not like I would have anyway - I did what I had come to do. Gently, I packed the cigarettes five or six times on the bottom right palm of my left hand as I've always done and unwrapped the crisp saran-wrapped sheath. As the plastic tore in its uniformly designed way, always counter-clockwise, I felt something inside me rending with regret. I slid the lid open and ripped off the silver bedazzled aluminum foil flap - the last thing between me and the calming rush of nicotine I had so foolishly purchased.
I don't know what I expected before I left the house with my money, or even as I purchased the pack; but I assume I expected that no matter how the vice was fed, at the point of consumption - all the ill feelings would go away. They didn't.
Just putting the filter to my lips felt wrong, like I imagine destroying a breathtaking piece of art would feel. The cigarette was now lit and I inhaled my first drag. It was bitter, comparable to the skin of an unripened banana; not at all enjoyable or calming. It was the taste of betrayal. Almost immediately I exhaled and had the urge to shed a tear for what I had done to myself; what my addiction has done to me. Through that moment of pity I realized that the addiction can no longer be enabled and at any cost, it must end. I know what I am going to pray for tonight, and it took this act of wrong to realize that I need help. It's bigger than me, bigger than I ever realized it could be.
I never thought I would spend that money, let alone on an addiction when I had acquired it throughout my childhood. The cigarettes cost just $4.60, but the value of the money used to total the cost was priceless, at least to me. See I have been collecting rare U.S coinage and paper money since as early as I can remember having money; somewhere around four years old. From that age forward, my father sparked an interest in me that I pursued to learn about and build my collection around even to this day. I can see the value of all stages and transitions of currency through time and valuation. Never considering myself a numismatist, just a collector - I don't believe I took the necessary pride in what my collection is until today. I betrayed the child in me that fought so eagerly to keep these small pieces of history alive. By proxy of my actions, I feel in a way I have also betrayed my father, who is also a collector. Though that may just be guilt pitting my stomach, there may be some validity to its presence. To amount to $4.60, I used a 1953 red seal two dollar bill, two 1957 silver certificate one dollar bills (one series "A" and one series "B") and two 1969 quarters of proof quality. Luckily I had a spare circulated dime of no value on my dresser, but that seriously does not at all put the act at ease.
If you are a collector, I know what you're thinking, "Nick, the value of those pieces are negligibly more valuable than their face value, don't sweat it!" But it's not the collectors value that bothers me. The first thing that bothers me is that if those bills get put into the stores nightly deposit, they will ultimately end up back at the federal reserve; at which point no collector will ever be able to treasure those pieces of history ever again. They will be destroyed, as they are out of circulation and far past their life expectancy. The S.O.P for things like this as they come through the reserve for processing is immediate destruction. The second thing that bothers me, moreso than the first, is that the younger version of me toiled and hunted for these "rare finds" in every encounter with any money I could get my hands on. If I could obtain it from someone I would, most times paying far over face value. Never once did I purchase any of my coins or bills from a collector or shop - I obtained them all through normal circulation. I just got lucky and that was part of the thrill of collecting. The hidden gold, sitting right in peoples pockets, totally hidden to the untrained eye was what drove me to keep collecting.
Tonight, my heart is filled with shame and I can't even feel comfortable with myself even as I write this. I have to free myself from the grip of addiction and earn back whatever is left me that is dignified. This can never happen again. Betraying the child inside of us is how dreams die - and I know this more than anyone. A lesson learned though, as hard as it may be to accept. God help me and all who struggle with these vices.
V
-Nick
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