Yoga Girl

I think I was thirteen when all of a sudden I became really “cool.” So
cool I refused to get braces even though I needed them badly (so badly
that I ended up getting them when I was sixteen instead, which was much
worse!). I started shoplifting and drinking on the weekends and also
picked up the terrible habit of smoking. I thought smoking was awesome.
It gave me a crowd, a reputation, and a feeling of screw you all—I can do
whatever I want. I wanted control of my own life and smoking was a way
for me to do that. I got addicted fast, physically and socially, and I smoked
about a pack a day until I turned seventeen. Of course, smoking and the
severe asthma I’d suffered from since I was little didn’t really go hand in
hand—not even a little. In the beginning I was okay, but it soon became
normal for me to sneak outside, take a puff from my inhaler, and then
light a cigarette. To this day, I can hardly believe it. I became an expert
liar, telling my parents elaborate stories about sitting in cafés with my
friends (you were allowed to smoke indoors at the time, so I said that’s
why I always reeked of smoke), about friends who smoked (I would
NEVER!), I had lit incense and it just has a similar scent, someone lit
candles, there was a fire—you name it. I never, ever admitted I was a
smoker. Of course they figured it out eventually, but there was nothing
they could do. I was a mess. My mom would ground me for months at a
time; I’d jump out the window. ey’d take my allowance away; I’d
shoplift. ey threatened to send me to boarding school; I ran away from
home, slept at the train station in downtown Stockholm for two nights,
and didn’t return until they begged me to come back. I remember my dad
lecturing me with tears in his eyes (“Don’t you understand you can die?”),
but it didn’t even faze me. I thought smoking was a part of my identity,
and I wasn’t prepared to let that go.
It started with cigarettes but went on to alcohol (a lot) and also drugs. I
had older boyfriends and I started hanging out with bad people doing bad
things. It wasn’t good, and worst of all was the lying. I lied about
everything. I lied so much I couldn’t even remember what was true
anymore. I lied about where I was, who I was with, what I was doing. I