There’s a certain combination of hedonism and delusion that the disposable vape smoker knows well. You don’t vape, not really, and you could quit anytime you’d like. You’re only vaping because it’s a fun little indulgence, a treat. You tell yourself this while heading to the shop to buy one more, mentally noting: “This will be the last.” But as soon as the vape is drained, you’re back again.
I loved being trapped in this cycle of self-deception. On the outside, it may have seemed like I was trapped, but inside, there was freedom in setting aside all my other obsessions and psychological compulsions to focus solely on my next hit. Better yet, this craving was so socially acceptable that I could satisfy it anywhere, anytime. I quickly reached a point of going through at least one disposable vape a day. For someone who’s never had a vape phase, that might sound like the equivalent of smoking a single cigarette a day. But it’s not the same at all: a disposable vape can pack as much nicotine as one or two packets of cigarettes. With my rate of consumption, this little treat cost about £150 a month, and the habit only intensified after I was working from home with no co-workers to witness my habit (or shame). I indulged more than ever, the rhythm of my day punctuated only by a few seconds between vape inhalations.
Now, it’s been announced that single-use vapes will be banned in England and Wales next summer. It’s a smart pro-active move by the Labour government. The official reasoning points to curbing youth use and reducing environmental harm (I can almost see a mound of the hundreds of vapes I alone tossed, piling up before me). According to Defra, nearly 5m single-use vapes were thrown away every week last year, often ending up in landfills. The image is bleak, unnecessary and inescapably grim. So, farewell to disposable vapes, one of the most embarrassingly era-defining trends of the early 2020s.
Defenders of the vape will argue that it’s better than smoking, which is true in only a limited sense – we don’t actually know the long-term effects of vaping yet. One thing I do know is that nothing in life comes without a price, and no cycle of dopamine highs and lows is good in the long run. Beyond physical health, the hedonistic cloud of vape smoke seemed to dull my mind. Lost in the hazy loop of pleasure and relaxation, I was making worse decisions, likely derailing any progress toward my real goals, and most definitely being more self-destructive in small ways. Paediatricians have warned about the effects on young vapers, who report suffering from disrupted sleep and trouble concentrating. A few years after these devices gained popularity, it’s clear that disposable vapes have contributed to a culture of self-gratification that’s of a piece with our addiction to social media and digital devices. Together, these habits have created an epidemic of constant pleasure-seeking.
In our post-pandemic world, disposable vapes, which notably took off around 2022, offered the ultimate easy “little treat”: a quick, legal and socially approved hit. Though I’d been a smoker years ago, I’d long since quit and hadn’t looked back. Then, I was introduced to Elf Bars – the monarch of disposable vapes – by a friend who loves nothing more than an earthly luxury. She’d later feel guilty for introducing me to them. The nicotine concentration was high, the flavours delightful, the combination so compelling that it seemed like anyone could become hooked. For the masses, disposable vapes led to an unwelcome crash course in addiction – especially cruel because the habit seemed so harmless, so easy to rationalise and indulge in public. Many young users had never encountered addiction before; many adults were similarly naive about their own susceptibility.
When I decided to quit in summer 2023, my behaviour was so erratic that you might have thought I was withdrawing from something much harder. I would toss a vape in the bin only to dig it out from under the trash less than an hour later. I couldn’t work, couldn’t sleep; the headaches were relentless. My entire body screamed for a vape. I’d walk to the corner shop, buy one in self-loathing, and stand outside chaining hits until I tossed it in the bin opposite the shop yet again, convinced this time it was truly the end. Without the vape, I was gripped by exhaustion and the conviction that life was pointless.
Through sheer discipline and shame at the number of mini-relapses along the way, I was only on one glorious piece of nicotine gum per day late last year. Soon, after spending a week away on a retreat for work, I broke through into a second phase of quitting, where the idea of vaping would come to mind every half hour or so but I was able to swat it away. Today, I still can’t pass by someone vaping or think about it without feeling something suspiciously close to sorrow. Meanwhile, my itch to shop, scroll, find other more nefarious modes of stimulation, hums along in the background.
When we hit our vape-free summer next year, it might be an opportunity to rethink what we call “pleasure”, and consider more intentional ways of treating ourselves. I wonder if it’s even possible for anyone to pull their relationship with vaping back to some moderate level – to be a “normal vaper”, if such a thing exists. Disposable vapes demanded total surrender, and they received it. That’s precisely why anyone who has been in my position knows that, to regain control, they need to be fully rejected.
Hannah Ewens is a freelance editor and writer, and the author of Fangirls: Scenes From Modern Music Culture
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