Mesmerized by bloody nail beds; I quit eight months ago. The index finger is looking healthy, better leave that one alone- except for the the edge that I missed, guess I’ll even it out. “Relentless”, “obsessive”, “addicted”, “masochist” are just a few drops in a filling pot of terms associated with my habit–a constant infatuation that consumes minutes to the hour and even hours to the day. How much time have I actually spent bending my fingers in boxes, starring at them, biting, chewing, picking, spitting? Actually, they don’t look that bad right now.

Onychophagia (also onychophagy) is the scientific term for biting. “Doctors” say it is an oral compulsive habit and an obsessive compulsive tendency, they say it starts at an early age often around five or six years old, they say it’s related to ADD or defiance or separation anxiety, they say it’s a disorder, they say it can be treated. Trust me, I have tried. 

There was a time, that I vaguely recall, seeing a friend staring at his hand during morning greetings in the fourth grade; he was enchanted. Surrounded by constant chatter and supposed stimulation but they did not faze him. Concerned only with his hands. He found something that actually kept his focus. Any time that his nails were not being inspected he would disrupt with quaking leg shaking or drumming heavy taps on the glossy metal desk legs. I asked him why he did it and he said, “do what?” No self awareness. Clarifying what I meant and followed by a harmonic “duuuhhh”, he said, “I don’t know.” My criticism and intrigue with these malleable bones led to my own habituated fix. Step one, at the latter stages, of any addiction seems to always be admitting that there is an issue. I look at my fingers and know that I have an addiction, but what does that matter- I quit last year.            

As a seasoned nail warrior, we exchange stories of bloody battles and fallen keratin with others that have been through it all. A friend shows me her ring finger, it is finally starting to grow back after Mastication Day about a month ago. I show her my middle, curved and weathered from last weeks court appearance. We seek comfort in knowing that any time our nails get hacked up and torn they always come back, a microcosm for the bodies and brains bearing the protruding protectors. I quit a year and a half ago. 

Oral fixation- a term coined by Sigmund Freud. I always need something in my mouth. A term that sounds overtly sexual, a term that I explain with conviction (perhaps far too liberally as well). Formally, oral fixation is the result of an infant’s thwarted appetite during nursing. Freud observed that a child would potentially develop a neurosis during adolescence and it may continue into adulthood. What may have started with nails has grown to include mountains of “chewables”. Gum, pen caps, disposable spoons, coffee stirrers, paper clips, sunflower seeds, plastic orange juice rings, and assuredly plenty of other inanimate objects have fallen into my grasp, and journeyed toward my not quite bright white ivory fence. I try to avoid anything messy though, like a marker or a paint brush (trial and error won out on those). Gum is my main fix these days, popping in a piece as soon as I get to my car in the morning. Flavor varied depending on the mood of the day . I’ll usually have at least three flavors in the cannon; a mint (spearmint or wintergreen are preferred), classic bubble obviously, and the third is a wild card, ranging anywhere from cinnamon to Zebra Stripe. One piece will customarily last until after work. Even with the gum occupying my mouth, my mind still observes the dexterous entities that it is controlling. Saving something for later, when the gum has long since lost its luster. I’ll chew the thumb a bit while I write this sentence. The days without gum are difficult. When my value pack hold only wrappers and I won’t have time to say “hey” to Amir at the bodega. 

Every alternative has its downfall though. With gum apparently I have to worry about artificial sweeteners and the “organic chew” tastes like shit. Also chewing gum at the rapidity that I do has undoubtedly led to a clicking jaw and perhaps even my charming overbite. Sunflower seeds are so damn salty. The unsalted ones are my preference but the mass public seems to enjoy Spicy Buffalo Pickle Ranch Oreo Blast as opposed to the flavor nature has provided them. I hate chewing on pens, they are holy. It is sacrilegious to use a Scribe’s sword as a chew toy. Straws drip if you don’t pinch the bottom. Orange juice tops get thrown out and I don’t buy it all that much. 

Then there was “dip”, my old friend. Snuff, chew, lip, pinch, all refer to that same burning poison that made me forget about all the other vices. Freshman year of high school was my first exposure, on the baseball field of course. The biting was at its “worst”, people were finally starting to notice. Copenhagen Long Cut soaked in Jack Daniels was my first pinch, nearly made me puke all over the right fielder’s white Mizuno cleats. I bought a tin after practice. A substitute that would last up through senior year and into my second year of college. My gum line is almost back to its original position. I quit at the request of an ex girlfriend and my dentist. I quit 2 years ago.

Nail biting is a colloquial term that we generally associate with anticipation or nerve wracked suspense. “This Thursday don’t miss the nail biting finale of… (fill in garbage television show here), a psychologically diagnosed obsession has become a recognized analogy. Even non biters use the term with nonchalance. You need to go through some scabs before including us in your vernacular. An exclusive club that only the most refined members of society are part of, or more accurately just those smothered or rejected youngsters; the crem de la crem.        

A broken record playing such hits as “that’s uncouth” and “just stop” spins constantly whenever those who know my habit are around. There is nothing that I haven’t heard and told myself before. As a “pathologic groomer” there are ways that I present myself to the public. When holding a glass in public it is important to turn your wrist so that the nails are not pointing directly out. This will avoid situations in which people ask about the nails; biters only like to talk about it with other biters. Avoid nail salons, they can be critical. I do not see it as a problem though, it just helps me get through the day. To be honest that habit has gotten much “better” over the last year or two, I can show you certain fingers and you wouldn’t think they were so bad. I quit 10 years ago.

Satisfying. When I see that perfect bite and execute it flawlessly, jubilation spilith over. It is an astoundingly immediate pleasure. The clean up come with less grace. Tearing up a tissue and sopping up red droplets. Absorbing other pre-scabs with my tongue. Perhaps in time the habit will be nixed, living on only through tiny scars. It is my comfort though, knowing that I have these ten tools capable of writing this essay and entertaining me for hours. I have never seen myself from the perspective of an outside observer, what it truly looks like when I hook the big one. Internally I do not care. There have been classes lost as a result of evening out the lineup, movies forgotten because of inconsistencies. At the time it all seems worth it. 

Certain people and experiences can break the habitual concentration, they mean the most to me. I have stopped for girls, for catches, for writing, for conversation, for skiing (damn mittens), for travel, for disgust, even for you– but never for me.