These are my hands. I was sitting at the computer thinking of a good story to write. Nothing was happening. Writer's Block. Then I looked at my hands. And I had one of my epiphanies again.
Let me tell you a story...
I was a chronic nail biter.The flesh at the end would form ugly mounds that folded over the boat shaped slivers that my nails were bitten down to. Sometimes , when there was no extra length of nail to bite, I would chew on the cuticle, the surrounding skin. Alright, I think I have grossed you out...
A simple Google search for why people bite nails will reveal everything from obsessive compulsive disorder, anxiety, neurosis to more serious disorders like clinical depression. Let's just say I was a very anxious and nervous kid. Why? Let's not go there. My blog is no longer a space where I can rant freely. Heh heh. The problems of increased readership, I say.. The flip side of fame ( delusional me speaking! Ahahahaha!).
So, yes, where were we? Nervous kid. Right, so from the time I was like, maybe 4, I began to get into this frame of mind that the whole world around me was falling apart. Now folks can be divided into two groups, a Kurukshetra of sorts. There are those who say that that the world was indeed falling apart around me . Then there are others who say that "in my warped estimation", things were falling apart around me ( The Matrix Model where nothing really is. You think so, hence it is real. Maya Theory for steadfast Hindus). I shall, to appease the second group, take it on myself. You know, accept responsibility. Be a man about it all. Woman. Whatever.
So, "In my warped estimation", my world was falling apart. Nature had blessed me with deep sensitivity which manifested as music, art and writing. The flip side was flimsy emotional skin. I perceived stress in heightened form. I will find supporters to vouch for the fact that those stresses were not " merely perceived" but "real" but like I said before, " to appease some", let's say that those stresses were exaggerated by my over sensitive self. Oh my. This puzzle-speak thing is just not my style and I am twisting and squirming here. Tough for plain speak folks to go all cloak and dagger. So this para ends here. Full stop. You readers have a brain, don't you? Think then...
Anyway, nail biting was a great release, a fantastic outlet. Feel stress, bite. Feel anxious, bite. Feel angry, bite. Feel rage, bite. Feel small, bite. Feel helpless, bite. Eventually it became feel anything, bite. So, not in just those stress moments but even when watching TV or listening to music, it was all about peeling any nails that had dared to grow back.
I remember n number of instances where this nervous tick of mine became a source of deep shame. Bitten down nails create a very bad first impression. It is a dead give away to your state of mind and speaks volumes about your self-esteem and self-confidence I would be at a competition, holding the winner's trophy and people would come up to shake hands. And they would be appalled at the monstrous state of my nails. I would be at a recital and people would come up saying " Oh, show me those hands. You play like magic!". And I would be distraught at the way people reacted to what they saw. Ugly gnarled fingers with non-existent dirty nails.
In college, my hands were the bane of my life. Professors, classmates, friends, everyone I met would look at my nails and make all kinds of deductions about me- insecure, under-confident, conflicted. Correct deductions at the time, I must say in all honesty, but it was mortifying, to be exposed in such a way. Only psychos indulged in such disgusting self-harm.
I tried many times to quit cold turkey. And succeeded. My nails would grow and I would be astonished at their beauty. To think that such ugliness could transform itself into such fully formed things without a trace of the trauma I had subjected them to, was astonishing. Left alone, those keratin wonders looked so perfect. But then, the next time I felt stressed, I would degrade them. I would relapse. Almost like a crazy Gardener running amok among his roses shearing them away ruthlessly. Perversely, there was a satisfaction in seeing them back to their misshapen bleedy selves. So I continued this cycle for 25 years...
Then, in 2002, I met a handsome, shy, bassist. I was quitting cold turkey at the time ( for the nth time!) and on our first date, I had long, manicured talons, painted a sexy dusty rose. I waved them proudly in front of him all the while during our animated conversation. He later told me that he was stunned by the beauty of my hands. Ironically, Life took over the next time we went out. My nails were gone! Back to bleedy boats. And what was unbelievable was that the handsome, shy bassist made no remark about it. Even when I looked all self-conscious and sad, my fingers curled leper-like when we sat at the cafe. A fundamentally good person having a bad time, he reckoned, he later said... Very tolerant and very optimistic. No one would have bet on me in those days. Anyone else would have marked me off as a psycho and shown a clean pair of heels, seeing such hideous self-mutilation.
Well, I married the handsome, shy bassist, you know. With persistent effort and self-inquiry into addressing the real problem for my nail biting, I quit once and for all. Other things fell into place after that. I blossomed as a human being. I found the basic things I never had as a person.
I have evergreen dusty rose talons now. Tantalizing and beautiful. I shamelessly brag, don't I! I have earned it, my dear readers. My children ( we have two " as -of-now-not-so-weird-ones") like to hold my hands and trace the shape of my nails. My 3 and a half year old daughter, a fashion conscious diva in the making, has a pet phrase at bedtime " mamma, your nails are sooooo beautiful. Can I grow mine too?". Now what could be more fulfilling for an ex-nail biter than hearing that?
My hands have reflected my life. I love my hands now. I love my life...
