I bite my nails intensely, down to the point of 🩸 and pain. ..

I bite my nails intensely, down to the point of 🩸 and pain. To the point where putting on clothes or washing my hair hurts. And yet, I have absolutely no desire to do this. I first began paying special attention to my fingers when I was around 7 years old. I watched my mom clean between her teeth with her nails—she had very neat, well-maintained hands, and she did it in such a stylish way, with a soft “tsk” sound. It seemed so cool and grown-up to me, even though at that age, I didn’t fully understand what she was doing. I would just bring my thumb to my lips until a small swelling appeared on its side. This became an obsession. Over time, I started biting my nails so severely that the nail plate was half its healthy length. I also picked at scabs on my skin, usually from mosquito bites, leaving my legs covered in pigment spots. I squeezed pimples too, obsessively. By the time I reached the upper grades, I weighed 116 kg at 178 cm tall. It was quite the picture. After school, there were highs and lows, but my appearance eventually settled into something relatively nice. A big milestone was when, two years ago, I started getting manicures, and my nails finally grew out. For two years, I forgot about my hands, only feeling joy and pride in them. But this semester, we started our clinical introduction, and I had to remove the gel polish. The manicurist kindly asked me not to bite my nails. And I bit them. From the second week of classes, I destroyed them. I kept convincing myself I had broken the habit and would never do it again. But deep down, I always knew that beneath the beautiful nail polish, the old familiar version of me lay hidden—tormented by my own hands. I feel sorry for my fingers. I lie in bed and watch videos of pimples being popped. My nails ache. I wish I didn’t have such an urge for these things.