The first time I quit smoking it was because I was about to move to California and I had this odd idea that Californians would shun me for such a filthy habit. So every time I lit a cigarette out of that last pack I bought, I became disgusted and put it out. I gave away all my Marlboro miles because I didn't even want to let on that I was an ex-smoker. It was very funny to see how wrong I was once I got here.

I picked up cigarettes again when I met my husband, a year or so later, but don't remember smoking unless we were out together.

Then I realized that I was allergic to cats, and in avoiding exposure to cats my sinuses cleared for the first time in years.

Then cigarettes stank to high heaven, once I could smell them I guess.
Then, the smell made me violently ill.

So it was very easy for me to quit because my body vetoed my every attempt to take the deadly poison. It wanted to live!

It was more difficult for my husband, who tried all kinds of tricks and games and crutches, but who ended up quitting because he decided to. He fought through the withdrawals with sheer determination, which in hindsight is admirable but at the time, it was not a pleasant experience for either of us.

Withdrawal has to happen. It's an unavoidable healing crisis and you might as well get it over with. Every cigarette smoker (who wants to live) will quit one day, for some reason or another.