on biting my nails
hey, missed you, here's an essay about compulsions
Hey, long time no talk! I’m not going to make any promises or lofty goals about the regularity of this newsletter because—I’m sure it’s pretty obvious—I can never stick to it. I’ve missed writing it, but I’ve also been writing a lot in other places. I’ve been writing a monthly Design column for Totally Dublin, covering art initiatives and exhibitions going on in the city. It’s a lovely little magazine and it’s free, so definitely worth picking up if you’re strolling through George’s Arcade or getting a coffee.
And a confession: I’ve been cheating on this newsletter with another Substack. If this is the only social media platform you follow me on (kind of funny if true), Emma and I started a big gay club night called HONEYPOT and I write our monthly emails. As well as party updates, there are monthly recommendations on books, music, films, events and general cool shit to check out. If that sounds like something you’d be into you can subscribe above!
So, without further ado, here’s an essay. I wrote it in August while visiting my family during London’s long, hot, sticky summer. I was trying to break a habit I’ve had pretty much my whole life and ended up talking to a lot of people about it. This caused me to have lots of long, winding thoughts on bad habits, technology, compulsions, beauty, and more. Hope you like it. If you do, I’d love if you left a comment so I feel less like I’m talking into the void :-)
On Biting My Nails
It’s been 22 days, 12 hours, 18 minutes and 11 seconds since I’ve bitten my nails. I know this because I downloaded an app called I Am Sober to help me quit. I receive a notification twice a day imploring me to check in and log my progress. The first one arrives at 9.30 AM, when I’m gulping the last drops of my oat cappuccino and cursing Dublin for the fact that it costs €4. A notification flashes on my phone screen. Are you ready to stay sober today?
The app pulls up the pledge it told me to write on Day 1 of my journey. I want to stop causing myself pain and grow strong, nice nails that I am proud to show off. The earnestness of the statement makes me cringe. It feels embarrassing to admit that you regularly do something that makes you feel bad. It feels even more humiliating writing it into an app with progress graphs and built-in motivational quotes, its UX so clearly designed to convey modern ideas of self-care and optimisation. Nevertheless, committing to quitting in the digital realm somehow makes it easier to stick to in the real world. This fact feels unsettling to reconcile.
I have been trying to quit the affliction since childhood. I can recall sitting at a big, round table in my primary school in Hertfordshire, England, nibbling at my fingertips and feeling concerned about learning double-digit times tables. I remember staring at my hands on a ferry to Ireland, aged eleven, and noticing little white half-moons that peeked out of the base of each nail. I couldn’t remember whether they signified good or bad health, which worried me. Adult me will Google it and learn that they are called lunanas—Latin for little moon—and not being able to see them can indicate anemia, malnutrition, or depression. I haven’t seen mine in years. In 2016 I walked into my first lecture in DCU, picked a seat near the top right exit, and ripped off the tip of my thumb nail in one swift bite, balling my hand into a fist as blood trickled down it.
Over the years I have tried and failed at a plethora of quitting methods. I tried bribery, promising myself that if I stopped I would finally buy myself that black Chanel nail polish I can’t afford. I attempted meditation, sitting cross-legged with headphones in and trying to disassociate to a woman’s calming East Midlands accent. I painted my fingernails with a colourless serum that’s designed to taste so bitter and disgusting that it stops you chewing (unless you are me). I set out to trick my own brain, reducing the number of nails I was allowed to bite from one hand, to three fingers, to finally just my pinkie. I used self-hatred as a motivating tool, staring at other girls’ pristine, manicured hands and muttering furiously at myself for being unable to achieve what they have. You’re such a piece of shit, my inner voice would hiss as my roommate showed me her new Shellac. They were filed into perfect ovals, making her tanned hands look long and feminine, silver sparkles sitting on top of the midnight blue polish like stars in a night sky.
When my nails are at their worst—tiny jagged strips with red-raw hangnails that I can hardly bear to look at—I feel scruffy, undisciplined, feral. Every time I tap my keyboard and feel tiny sparks of pain shoot up my arms I am reminded of the part of womanhood I have never been able to keep up with. I put on four rings every morning, chunky silver knuckledusters: a cobra, a deer skull, one half of a custom set I got for me and my girlfriend, and a classic lesbian thumb ring. People admire them often, reaching out to grasp my hand in theirs to get a closer look. Muscle memory makes me curl them up, hiding my nails in my palms.
On Friday I put up a Close Friends story. It was a screenshot of the app with my 7 Days Sober milestone alongside a selfie of me holding a glass of red wine. A friend replied, looooooooool, before adding: I actually never saw you as a nail biter! The admission shocked me because the habit feels so intrinsic to my identity. How had she never picked up on my face burning in shame as I gnawed at my thumbnail? She told me that she does it, too. Our texts ricocheted back and forth like we were playing a tennis match, each time one of us admitting a new compulsion. I bite my lips until they’re dry and sore, she told me. When I was a teenager I used to pick my scalp until it bled, I said. She responded: ME TOO!!! It felt comforting to exchange our vices like this, peeling back our layers like onion skin to reveal the secret parts of ourselves, all dark and sticky and shameful. It felt like the quiet hours at a sleepover when there’s only two of you awake, protected by the darkness as you whisper your secrets into it.
Recently I discovered the Community section of I Am Sober. I can scroll through the strangers who are celebrating the same milestone as me—some for nail biting, many for various other afflictions. One woman posts a heavily filtered selfie with the caption: I got my hair done I haven’t bit my nails in 21 days but I picked my skin. Someone with an anime profile picture vents: Im so fcking tempted rn to just restart. My family are at me again all of them are just teaming up against me. A 13-year-old logs their three week anniversary from hair pulling with the caption: best. feeling. ever. People react to each other’s updates using the heart emoji, or sometimes, when the occasion calls, the confetti cannon. I imagine screenshots of everyone’s posts used in the app developers’ presentation deck, proudly showing investors, calling us a collective uplifting each other in their shared journey towards betterment.
I get my second check-in notification at around 9pm. When I’ve been diligent, logging my progress every day without fail, the tone is positive and upbeat: You got this, keep going! or, Hey there! Time for your daily review! But when I’ve been slacking, the message feels suspicious and subtly passive-aggressive: Hey. How are you doing? or Still sticking to that pledge?!?!?!?!?! I feel judged by the app’s tone. I flirt with the idea of deleting it from my phone out of spite but decide that it would do more harm than good. So, instead, I choose to commit. A balloon animal floats across the screen, disappearing and cutting to a pink-hued stock image of a sunset over a wheat field. Today’s motivational quote is revealed. I feel satisfied, accomplished, brave. Not all storms come to disrupt your life. Some come to clear your path.