Until two months ago, I had a terrible habit of picking at my nails. It wasn't just picking, though; I would gnaw my nails, tear them, and rip them until they were bleeding, grotesque stubs. (A little graphic? Sorry. I'm painting an image here.) This summer, however, I had a dream.
I'd like to thank some very special people now, for their undying support, tough love, and praise: Maroline Stillingham, for being the catalyst I needed; Mara Pazzulo, for jabbing my ribs with her pencil whenever I glanced at my hands during class; my dorm mom, Brooke, for inspiring me; my regular mom, Pamela, for always being there for me; Scarlet Stove, for being my muse and beacon of hope in this otherwise dreary life; Caylin, for always being so disgusted by my nail stubs; the Academy for believing in me.
In my dream, I was twenty eight years old, and I was walking along the beach with my boyfriend. (No, nobody specific; no, I do not actually have a boyfriend; no, I don't remember what he looked like.) Suddenly, he stopped walking, and turned to me.
"Emma," he said, "We've been together for four years now. We are fantastic together, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you." He got down on one knee, and took my hands in his. "Will you --"
He glanced at my grotesque stubs of fingernails.
"Never mind."
Just call me Dr. Martin Luther King III.
After that dream, I was haunted. I knew I wanted to change, but I didn't know how much. And so, I kept picking at my nails. They were disgusting; I know that now. But I was an addict, in denial about the grossness of my habit and sure that I could not change. It took a true friend, Maroline Stillingham, to show me that I could.
Two months ago, you see, I was sitting with Maroline, merrily ripping apart my nails. She rolled her eyes, and said, "God, your nails are going to be like that until the day you die."
Now, in retrospect, Maroline, that wasn't so nice. It wasn't nice at all, but it was the kick I needed. That night, I resolved that my nails would not be like that until the day I died. I resolved to show Maroline wrong, and I resolved to stop picking.
The next week was hard. I wore gloves in class, and I painted my nails bright red to remind myself to not pick. (One classmate, unaware of the ordeal I was going through, was concerned and informed me that my fingers were bleeding.) I twitched a lot, tapped at my collarbone furiously, bit my lip, and flipped my pen like a madwoman. (One could argue that I'm a rather idiosyncratic person.) The first week was the hardest.
I'm still tempted to pick, sometimes, when I see a jagged edge, but I don't. (I also have lots of nail supplies now [files, clippers, scissors, tweezers, polish, polish remover, buffers, etc], thanks to some very supportive friends.) I have come so far; why give it up now?
And now, the moment you've all been waiting for:
You guys are awesome.
I might still be flawed and imperfect, but I'm a little less flawed now. Maybe I'll try to quit drinking coffee now. You never know.
Probably not, though.
