I used to feel, back when I occasionally smoked, that contrary to all sane evidence I was doing something good for myself, something not only virtuous, not only moral, not only psychologically responsible, but actually healthy.
Of course I would say the opposite. I would say I knew smoking was not a good idea, that of course one shouldn’t do it, and still I would watch a pack of cigarettes dwindle very slowly over a month. It’s true I was never completely addicted to nicotine, and when my closest friends smoked regularly, I would often pressure them to quit.
In fact there was always something slightly uncomfortable about smoking for me, something chore-like, something out of body, something theatrical. Maybe that’s why it felt healthy, the fact that it cost me some kind of comfort, and only left a trace of some uncertain change.