How did this come to be? What was wrong with me? I had tried to quit numerous times, only to succumb to the seduction of my old friend Copenhagen, in the black can with the tin lid. Those white letters were imprinted on my psyche as well as the can.

I was chewing a can of Copenhagen every day. Each failure to quit brought a new round of shame and humiliation. Some self-righteous moron would lecture me, and the pain and anger would well up inside of me like a smoldering volcano–nothing that a little pinch between the cheek and gum couldn’t calm.

Twenty years earlier I had my first chaw, or wad, of tobacco. I’ll never forget it. I was 16 years old, eager to try something rebellious and unique. My friend Mike had some Copenhagen, and I tried a little pinch. The particles wandering around in my mouth resulted in a grand little retching episode. You mean people actually chew this stuff? Boy, they must be tough.

Mike was not to be deterred. He solved the rookie chewer’s inability to keep the chaw in place by wrapping it in gauze; with the messy part solved, my path to the wonders of nicotine was now clear. I achieved the wonderful nicotine rush and lightheaded euphoria on a lazy summer night in 1973–with no smoke!

So began my innocent foray into the clutches of tobacco addiction. Gradually, it crept into every aspect of my life, methodically tricking me into wanting more and more while enjoying it less and less. Somewhere along the line it went from being socially comforting, something I enjoyed sharing with other chewers, to a habit and, later, an obsession. The thrill was gone.

Several times, I gave in to pressure to quit from my friends and relatives, and vowed to kick the habit. Once I did, nothing seemed normal–my life was too entwined with my can of tobacco. It had become my security blanket. How could I concentrate without it? How could I relax? No wad after a meal? No dipping during those boring meetings? No chew after coffee or cocktails? What kind of life was that?

Then, eight years ago, I started studying addiction. This was key for me, because I was doing it for myself, not to placate my loved ones. My search led me to a book, “You Can Stop Smoking,” by Jacquelyn Rogers, the founder of SmokEnders.

Although the book was written for smokers, I simply made a few adaptations for smokeless tobacco and I was ready to implement the plan. I learned how to gradually quit my habit by identifying the many triggers–like picking up a newspaper or finishing a meal–that kicked in my cravings for nicotine. Once I had identified a trigger, I’d slowly increase the time between it and the chew until, gradually, the trigger lost its power.

This knowledge and understanding gave me a feeling of control over the monster I was fighting. Little by little, I chipped away at the foundation of addiction, freeing myself from its grip.

I religiously followed the four-week plan to its conclusion. The last week went smoothly, but on “cutoff” day I came to the somewhat queasy realization that this would be the last day of a 20-year relationship. There was time for only a few more wads to chew. A feeling of ambivalence was intruding upon my quest.

These were to be the last hours, then minutes, of my nicotine habit. Tomorrow would be the first day of my new life free of the shackles of addiction. At 11:40 p.m. I put what would be my last chew of Copenhagen between my cheek and gum. The finality of it made me feel very anxious. I was really scared. Fear of failure was certainly there, but there was more. I was getting sentimental at losing an old friend.

To get myself back to reality, I pulled out my journal. I reviewed the many reasons I had listed for wanting to quit. At the top was “for my own freedom.” Then I looked at the reasons listed in the “Why I Chew” column–they had all been scratched out. I had systematically eliminated every one.

As the clock struck midnight, I took a deep breath. I walked outside and breathed in all the summer night’s sensory offerings. I removed the last chaw from my mouth, flicked it on the ground and threw the can triumphantly into the field behind my house. I felt sure I was done for good. Eight years of outwitting and ignoring my old best friend confirms that I was right. I’m free at last.