I had the nightmare again last week, right before the annual celebration. I’m in a crowd of people and I’m back smoking a pack and a half of cigarettes a day. A wave of utter hopelessness washes over me. How did I get here? I had quit — and now I know for certain I’ll never be able to quit again. Then I wake up with such a feeling of relief I could cry. It was 30 years ago on Jan. 31 that I really did quit after smoking for the previous 30. I started when I was 13, stealing packs of Salems from my mother and then, big hero, sharing them with friends.