When I wake up in the morning, before eyes open and thoughts bubble, I start chewing the inside of my lip. There's a calloused lump of scar tissue, and I bite down on it near constantly in waking life.
I took up this habit while attempting to stop biting my nails. Now I bite my nails and chew my lip.
It's anxiety. I know that. Everybody knows that. But why have I been anxious my entire life? What about me -- what about my personality -- leads to bloody cuticles and throbbing pain?
Yes. I have tried everything to stop biting my nails. Yep. Everything.
Until I can free myself from the always bubbling anxiety, I can't stop biting my nails.
I hold onto life with a white-knuckled fierceness, willing it into submission. Willing it to conform. Picture me, jaw clenched, trying to tell a roller coaster to slow down or turn right instead of left. (It never works.)
We joke that I've been biting my nails since my parents took away my pacifier. And that might even be true. I can't remember a time in my life before I started biting my nails. It's part of me.
And I hate it.
Because, God, I hate the anxiety. Hate it. How can it ever cease?
I don't know. But I'm going to start with gratitude.
I'm going to start with an attempt at recognizing the minutiae that makes me sublimely content -- if even for a milisecond. I'm going to be grateful and train my mind to recognize and focus on things such as these.
And here -- here is what sent a flicker of joy coursing through my bloodstream this morning: little boy shoes in the middle of the living room floor. The shoes are getting ever-larger these days. And I'm so thankful for the stinky little feet that fill them.
