Training Wheels

This is an essay I wrote at the beginning of this summer, in the midst of a series of delayed and cancelled flights to Chicago. I’ve only added one sentence since then—I’d like this work to serve as a sort of time capsule. While this essay continues to align with my truth, I believe that I have grown immensely since its conception. Of course, I’ll never be perfect. Even recently, I’ve spent entire days confronted with my reflection, picking myself apart in more ways than one.

My life has changed drastically since I first typed these words, but, to me, it is important that they are shared. I’m no longer ashamed of my story.

...

June 15, 2021

[TW: self harm]

Two days ago, I took my natural nails out for a spin for the first time in years.

I sat in a chair at the unusually empty salon and watched it happen. I was used to this feeling: she’d place acetone-soaked cotton balls on my fingers and wrap them in foil, melting away the Pinterest nail design of the month. I’d had an on-and-off relationship with dip powder nails since eighth grade, the longest stretch lasting from the end of my sophomore year to now, almost a month after high school graduation.

Today was the day it was officially over.

I’ve struggled with anxiety throughout my life, but it became especially prominent in middle school, when I developed trichotillomania (a word I just learned and am very proud of). I’d sit in front of the mirror and pull out my eyelashes, one by one, stopping only to slip into a reluctant sleep. When my eyelids were red and bare, I’d resort to my eyebrows and the edges of my hairline. It became indulgent—a guilty pleasure I’d convinced myself no one could see—a part of me that lived behind closed doors. But, of course, when you’re a brunette eleven-year-old with invisible eyebrows, everyone can see. Then, it was automatic.

That semester was the first time I ever wore makeup.

Over the next couple years, my hair grew along with me. By seventh grade, I almost looked like myself again, but my anxiety had far from subsided. In fact, it had morphed into much more. Slowly—yet suddenly—my fingernails began to attack each other, becoming shorter and shorter until they barely held on. I was, strangely, more ashamed of my hands than I had been of my face years before—maybe because I looked at my fingers constantly when I wrote, or maybe because I had more control of my nails than I did my hair growth.

Maybe because this was easier to hide.

So began my monthly trips to the nail salon, which were comforting. I’d enter each trip with the intention to top the last, to find something more creative or eye-catching or different. I loved my nails, and my friends did too. They’d ask me for help choosing between designs or deciding which technician to visit. I was content: I was unable to pick at my nails while trapped behind their armor, and they started to grow again. I allowed myself to focus on the words I wrote rather than the fingers striking the keys.

I started to grow again.

Two days ago, I sat in that salon chair and let everything change. The past months had been filled with lasts: classes, games, performances, dances. I was newly single, for the first time in two and a half years. My life no longer had the guaranteed consistency that high school offered: I won’t step foot on my college campus until January. I was preparing to start my new job. Suddenly, I was all alone.

The training wheels were gone.

When the technician removed the foil, she held my hand in hers for a second, seemingly to examine what she was working with. And then she said a word that surprised me—strong. My nails—my nails—were pretty and strong. I’d like to think it meant more than just that: maybe I was strong too. Maybe my fingernails were just adornments on hands that were equipped to handle just about anything. Maybe all these measures I’d taken to hide my habits, my insecurities, wouldn’t be necessary forever.

As anyone who has dealt with self-harm of any type will understand, there is always the threat that, one day, you might slip into your old habits. Part of me believes I will always live with that fear. However, I know now that, when my bike tips on the sidewalk, there’s no reason to reattach the training wheels. Those small, physical comforts—my temporary armor—cannot last forever. As I pedal on into adulthood, I carry with me the strength that came from all those quiet battles I fought behind closed doors. While the fight will never completely be over, I know the steps to take toward healing—and I think, deep down, I have all along.

It’s just like riding a bike.

...

Text HOME to 741741 and seek professional help if you or someone you know is turning toward self-harm.