12 years ago, I finally quit the chronic nail biting in which I had indulged since the age of 6. I let myself continue smoking, lest quitting two oral fixations at the same time drive me over the edge. I was one of these nail biters who bit beyond the quick, making the nail beds bleed. Washing dishes, washing hands, peeling mandarin oranges, typing - all these made my fingertips sting. To compound the agony, I would often apply nail hardening or healing polish on top of the throbbing nubs, which for a moment electrified the pain and sent me into shock. Specialty nail polish didn't curb the habit. I dissociated when I bit my nails; when I came too, I would realized that I would just peel off the polish before chowing down. As for cayenne pepper based remedies, um, I love spicy food. Totally ineffective. I once read that chronic nail biting stems from perfectionism (here's a recent iteration of that theory: http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/6854152), not just anxiety, and I still think that this idea has merit. It was only recently, when I had fallen off the wagon a couple of times, that I accepted that my mutilation of my fingers was a form of self-harm. As I worked to heal myself, I managed to set aside the need to cause myself physical pain (this article explains stuff pretty well: https://www.mentalhelp.net/articles/6-reasons-why-people-self-injure/). Or so I thought. Earlier this year, I was encouraged to write a short screenplay based on my real life experience articling for a mentally/emotionally abusive lawyer. Spoiler: it would later be for naught because it was a one-sided and toxic friendship. As I relived the events - and got anecdotes from people who had seen me through those horrible times - my CPTSD came back with a vengeance. Since I didn't want to affect my outward appearance for auditions, etc., it is not surprising that I found another outlet: peeling the calluses and skin off the bottom of my feet. I was back to dissociating and manically peeling layers of skin in strips. My soles were inflamed and raw; and I finally understood how Hans Christian Anderson's Little Mermaid (not the Disney version) felt when she became a land dweller: "Every one was enchanted, especially the prince, who called her his little foundling; and she danced again quite readily, to please him, though each time her foot touched the floor it seemed as if she trod on sharp knives." Walking was agony, and I hid my grimaces behind sparkling smiles. The pain was so profound, I included the imagery into my script to demonstrate the unraveling of the cinematic "me". A couple of weeks ago, I finally managed to stop: not because I had healed again, or because of willpower, but because I reverted to nail biting. As I type this, my fingertips are on fire. I know that my body will acclimatize to the pain so that I am not conscious of it until my hands get wet or come into contact with juice or metal. Then, the searing pain will make me grit my teeth. In a day or two, when the nails have grown back a micrometer and the quick is no longer directly exposed, the cycle may begin again. Self-harm, like cigarettes, like drugs, is an addiction, and addictions never completely dissipate. I hope that by writing this, I can both commit myself to climbing back on the wagon, and maybe make someone out there who may come across this blog feel less alone. You and I do not deserve to hurt all the time. Self-punishment is not required; the disappointments of this existence should be enough. We are damaged but not necessarily broken, and even if we are broken, we are not useless. We are caring individuals who have loved too much, trusted too much, hoped too much, but our compassion and empathy is also our strength. We are still breathing and thinking; so it is still possible for us to heal, to let the pain stop, or at the very least, not contribute to it.