SquarePeg Books

Anxiety commonly goes hand in hand with depression. When you are depressed, you are always angry, even when you’re having a good day, there’s always a current of frustrated rage riding below the surface. That smile, those jokes, the goofiness–it’s a mask. It isn’t all acting, but a goodly portion of it is.
People seem to enjoy a receptionist with personality.
People do not like a receptionist with bloodied and hacked cuticles. They tend to be a little standoffish.
I have picked at my cuticles for so long, I couldn’t tell you when it started. I envied the nails of everyone else–they look so healthy. so what if the nails aren’t even to each other, or aren’t painted? At least they aren’t torn to the quick with dried blood on them, or, you know, fresh blood.
In my 40’s wisdom, I tried painting my nails to distract me. I think I got the idea from watching one of those exotic veterinary shows–they painted the nails of primates after any kind surgery, no matter how tiny, because the primates would see the bright colors and feel the polish on their nails, and be so determined to pick at them to get the foreign matter off their fingers and toes, that they wouldn’t be tearing at their sutures and what not.
Well, hey. I’m a primate, technically. Maybe nail polish, even badly applied, would be a significant enough distraction that I wouldn’t tear the hell out of my cuticles.
And it kinda worked.
I did not tear at my cuticles. Sometimes my polish would last for a week or two before becoming chipped. I liked looking at my painted fingers, they made me feel so accomplished and bougie.
But then my nails would grow and there would be that line where the paint had been right up against the cuticle. Or I would do yard work or some other chore. I’m very demanding on my hands, so even with gloves on, I chipped the paint. Sometimes, I didn’t even remember doing anything that would warrant a chip in the paint.
Sometimes there didn’t even have to be a chip. Sometimes just my anxiety would be enough that I would start picking at my nails, digging one manicured edge into the paint.
Chips would fly off, paint would sometimes peel in strips. Thin bits of keratin would come off with bit of damage.
I just couldn’t stop myself. My fingers weren’t bloody, but they were also not good looking either. Just as gross as bloodied cuticles, but different.
I had to stop painting my nails, or I would no longer have any nails.
Then I discovered fidget rings.  Spinning bands that I could flick with a nimble finger. One wasn’t enough, I had to have more. Bands with delicate thin loops, bands with tiny balls that moved up and down the length of the spiraling wire ring. Rings with heavy bands decorated as a dragon or with the symbols of the sacred sounds of Buddhist meditation. Heavy brass rings that didn’t spin, but were weighty enough that I couldn’t forget. Rings with spinning barrels mounted in place of the bezel. Turkish puzzle rings that I take to the bathroom, shaking out the locked pattern to solve in a quiet place.
Fidget rings worked. The only problem I have now is remembering to choose my rings for the day. Because when I forget, that cuticle is so conveniently right there.