I was sitting in the dentist’s chair, my eyes tightly closed as the doctor injected novocaine into my gums. While I waited for the numbness to creep in, he suddenly grabbed my hand with concern.

“Oh no, what happened to your fingers?”

Looking down, I saw a thin line of blood pooling around two cuticles and quickly snatched my hand from his grasp. “It’s nothing – just some cuts from working in the garden,” I lied.

It was the same lie I had told many times whenever someone spotted blood around my nails. I’ve been chewing the skin around my cuticles for as long as I can remember. It’s a disturbing habit that I share with my mother and older sister; sitting together on the couch, we’d watch a suspenseful movie on TV and nibble away at our fingers until they bled.

I didn’t worry that my fingers looked like they’d been through a cheese grater when I was home with my family, but shame over my unsightly hands made me hide them in public – either curled behind my back or buried deep in my pants pockets. It was a dirty little secret that I kept to myself, especially during my teen years when being ‘normal’ was paramount to fit in with my peers. However, if I forgot about my chewing and accidentally allowed my hands to be seen, someone would inevitably ask what happened to my fingers.

I got really good at lying about my bloody cuticles with a ready-made list of excuses. This was easy enough, but it also interfered with simple, day-to-day actions such as shaking someone’s hand, eating in public or scrolling on my phone.

“Compulsively biting my cuticles made me feel so ashamed, but now I don’t let dermatophagia define me”