I am getting ready for a dressy event with my husband's work colleagues — not black tie, but definitely quite a few steps up from my daily stay-at-home mom look. I am looking forward to a reason to wear makeup, blow-dry my hair, and pull my heels off of the top shelf of my closet.

But just as I slip on a bracelet, I say, "Oh sh#t." I look down and notice my hands. They are particularly raw today. I didn't realize they had gotten this bad. My forefingers and thumbs are covered with open sores. My knuckles look like I have punched a brick wall. As usual, I have to decide: Is it less conspicuous to wear band-aids to cover all of the sores, or to expose them? What about when I raise my wine glass to take a sip? Or heaven forbid if I have to shake hands with someone — what if I am bleeding?

A combination of severely dry skin and a lifelong battle with dermatophagia (eating the skin around my fingernails) causes me daily embarrassment of my unsightly hands. Winter is the hardest time, as that is when my skin is driest. I have tried a long list of treatment methods, including wearing special gloves and healing creams to bed and painting the skin around my nails with awful tasting preventative oils. These efforts have resulted in temporary healing, only to be followed by infection again.

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There was one occasion when my husband and I were heading to a party, where we would meet up with old friends and be introduced to new ones, and I had bitten my skin to the point of bleeding in the cab on the way there. I was frantic — without bandaids in my sequined wristlet (my mom purse at home was stocked full) and about to bleed on my clothes and/or the taxi. I was able to stamp out the wound with my other hand, but had to rush the bathroom immediately upon arrival to literally wash blood off of my hands.

There are embarrassing moments in my less than fancy life of motherhood as well. Writing out a check for preschool tuition recently, I asked the school administrator to borrow a pen. I was mortified as she handed it to me that she probably caught site of the open sores on my fingers. She probably threw that pen away after I left. I frequently volunteer in my son's elementary school, and when handed a task by his teacher, I cringe, worrying she will be repulsed as I touch the things in her classroom. Or worse, my son's classmates will ask him what is wrong with his mom's hands.

The holidays are approaching, and I'll try like hell to get my hands healed before Christmas (as I do every year, without success) so I can open presents with my kids and feel comfortable serving myself from the buffet table, surrounded by relatives I only see a few times a year. And, as always, if anyone asks what happened, I'll lie and say "It's a burn from a craft project gone bad" or blame it all on dry skin. How can I tell anyone I intentionally bite my own flesh?

I've heard it takes 21 days to truly break a habit. I know people who have overcome various compulsions and have said after the first week that it got easier. I've made promises to myself, goals of going three straight days or even an entire day without biting one finger. I've never made it. I've asked my husband and children to tell me if they notice (for so often I do not realize I am doing it). They grew tired of reminding me long ago. And then there are the times when I do know that I am gnawing on my dry, brittle hands and don't stop. Can I stop? There is always more coarse, dry skin to contend with, on another finger, or the other hand.

I've worn gloves while driving (as driving often yields to the worst abuse of my hands — the only time all day that I am still and not using them for another task). I've sat on the hand not on the steering wheel, as well as forced myself to keep it in a fist for as long as possible. I've paid for expensive manicures (despite the sheer mortification of the manicurist having to touch my scabbed over hands) just to be able to look down and see them beautiful. And this, I hope, will motivate me to keep them healthy. It never does.

I've battled dermatophagia and dry skin as long as I can remember, but I only recently self-diagnosed this condition after researching new (untried) methods of stopping and healing. Learning the word dermatophagia has helped me to come to terms with this weakness of mine.

Now that I know that this is a real condition, with a name, I feel more optimistic, ambitious even, in seeking out avenues of coping, healing, and overcoming this embarrassing part of my physical appearance. But for today, the best I can do is reinvest in more bandaids and the newest healing hand cream I can find. And pray that the next time I am sliding a gold bracelet up my wrist and stepping into heels, I'll be able to sip my wine that evening with confidence that no one is looking at my hands.

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