I found an old story in my Google Docs from last year that I actually enjoyed re-reading. I might rewrite it one day but as of right now I'm not doing anything with it, so I figured I might as well post it here. I hope y'all enjoy!
Usually when I say this, people start to reassure me that they do so as well, and that itâs not anything to be ashamed of. What they donât realise is this: when I say I used to bite them, what I really mean is I used to chew them down into pink stubs, tearing right into the quick, and nibble at the skin around them too. Frankly itâs incredible I didnât get an infection from that old habit, but my fingers were always red and sore, with a tendency to bleed. But I kept biting. Whenever I was nervous, or agitated, or even just a little absentminded, my teeth would find my fingers and bite them until I physically couldnât anymore. Then I would feel stupid and insecure for having such a shameful habit.
I used to joke about it, too. Whenever my more fashionable friends commented on their own nail polish, I would feel the need to bring up those little warped gravestones on my fingertips, as if by drawing attention to them they would become less of a burning point of inadequacy for me. Iâd go even further and say I took pride in that rather ruinous part of my personality.
One day things changedâor more accurately, I forced the change upon myself. I went out and bought myself a tiny little bottle of black nail polish. That set me on a vague path to recovery, forcing me to consider whether it was worth wasting nail polish just for that momentary relief. It wasnât an overnight change by any means, and I definitely chewed off more coats than I care to admit (and accidentally consumed more polish than can possibly be good for someone) but it gave my poor hands a chance to heal and made my nails much easier to look at in the process.
Months went by and my nails were now at a decent length for the first time in my life. It may sound trivial to some, but I felt good flaunting my progress, and they looked even better. I had even graduated to various other colours. It feels ironic that on the morning that changed I was painting them black once again. I was just finishing my pinkie finger when my phone rang, almost scaring me into smudging them. I answered knowing full well it would be my mumânobody else would call when a single text would suffice. Sure enough, I heard the sour notes of her voice greet me. She sounded upset, and since I was unclear on whether I was the cause, I decided to treat her as one treats a landmine.
âHi, mum.â My voice rose a few notes and I winced, blowing absently on my nails to dry them. âIs something up?â
âIâm just wondering,â I flinched at the accusatory toneâso I was the cause after all, though Iâd be lying if I said I knew what Iâd actually done, âWhy exactly have you been lying to me.â
âLying about what?â I said, but my mouth was dry and my chest was starting to fill with fear. I began to raise my hand to my mouth.
âLying about your boyfriend. Or do you not remember? Come clean, Alice, I know youâve not really been seeing him.â
âNo mum,â I mumbled through my fingers, âI told you I stopped.â
I heard her irritable sigh through the phone and felt my ribs tighten. Mum always had liked my boyfriend much better than I had, enough that when we broke up she refused to listen to my reasons and instead insisted we still see each other. I may have told her, aeons ago, that Maybe Weâd Try It Out Again, but I certainly hadnât told her I was seeing him nowadays. She continued to sink her talons of disappointment into my brain with her next words.
âI donât know why you didnât stay with him. He was the best youâre ever going to get.â These words made my sore eyes overflow, and I started to sniffle. I donât remember the rest of that dismal conversation. In all honesty I was just trying to get off the phone as fast as I could, but what I do remember is that when I did put the phone down, I realised that my hand was now free of polish and that my fingertips looked red and wet with spit. I almost howled in outrageâit was just like that woman to take my one good accomplishment and turn it against me.
In the next few weeks, I tried everything to set myself back to rights, but it was all for nought. As my motherâs words played on repeat in my head, my mood sank lower and lower, and my nails seemed to get shorter and shorter. My fingertips started bleeding again. I stopped wanting to show them off.
It all culminated in one particular night. It was raining outside and instead of being out with friends, I was just staring at the wall of my bedroom and biting relentlessly on what remained of my fingers. I could feel the warmth of blood trickling down my hand as I tore into my flesh but I couldnât stop. My face was numb. Everything was numb, all sensation centred on my hands, as I ripped into them like a starved animal. My breathing sounded weird. My eyes were tearing up. The sensations intensified and I started to pant, sweat dripping down my face. And thenâŠI wrapped my hands around the first bottle of nail polish I could find, and stared at it hatefully. If I hadnât started painting my nails, I wouldnât have had the fragile illusion of recovery, and I wouldnât be stuck in this rut now, feeling so weak and helpless andâŠandâŠ
I donât allow myself to be around my nail polish anymore. I scrubbed for weeks, but the neon green is never coming out of that wallpaper. I donât really care anymore though. My fingers are worse than ever and Iâm pretty sure one of them is swelling up, but I donât care about that either.
I just canât stop biting my nails.
