Spun Around

As an indecisive teenager, I could never figure out if I was a Gold or Silver sort of person—I would switch almost every day. At some point I gave up completely and stopped wearing metal jewelry, silicone memorial bracelets were the only thing to adorn my body. This was largely an anxiety issue; the weight of these silicone shackles was a physical comfort, my wrists felt dangerously naked without them. Unfortunately, the bracelets couldn’t sustain the pressure of my unyielding, nervous wrist-wringing and eventually each of my bracelets would break and be thrown in a back drawer. I kept dozens of these identical memorial bracelets on my nightstand so I could easily replace them once they inevitably snapped under the weight of my anxiety. It was an obsessive ritual—born from grieving remembrance, but fueled by endless worry. 

During my sophomore spring, I found myself in Carmel, Indiana with my mother and sister. We spent hours walking through rows of booths for creatives of all sorts to display and sell their work. For most of the day, we looked for something to replace my mother’s engagement ring which she had recently cracked somehow (probably should’ve been a sign to get divorced sooner). We scanned through hundreds of velvet trays, searching for her favorite gemstones. As we looked for this replacement, a thick, silver ring caught my eye. It was so out of place amongst these delicate bands adorned by sparkling gems, but there it was: A hefty hunk of sterling, wrapped by a narrower, beaded band. The jeweler saw my intrigue and explained “It's an anxiety ring, you spin the beaded band around when you’re stressed!” She invited me to try it out, so I slipped it onto my pointer finger, pressing my thumb against the cold metal in a snapping motion. The ring wooshed as it spun around 6-7 times, returning quickly to stillness. The light scratching of the metals produced a calming sensation, as you felt the ring accelerate momentarily before resuming a motionless existence. That day, I decided I was a silver person. 

From then on, that ring never left my hand, and my bracelets stopped snapping. When life got stressful, I leaned upon this hug encircling my left index finger—and, unlike the silicone, silver could stand this never-ending abuse. My ring was so beneficial in my daily life, that I wouldn’t notice the emptiness of my wrist when forgetting to put on bracelets. This produced space for my mourning subconsciousness, releasing me from the constant reminder of death pulling on my arms. 

For years I used this ring as a crutch, unloading the weight of my anxiety onto an unfeeling, inanimate object. It was truly healing. My first fall at college, though, I attended the volleyball conference semifinal, cheering my fellow Smithies onto victory. As I got ready for bed that night I heard a crack while slipping rings off my fingers and into a jewelry plate. From my hands, the beaded anxiety ring fell, in two pieces, to my desk—a dramatic slow motion image replaying in my head. This was my worst fear come to life, yet, unlike my ring, I didn’t feel broken. This time, when my ring snapped, I felt prepared. It’s stupid, really, to think that such a small object can teach you so much, but that's the truth. I didn’t need to spin out about this loss, because all I lost was the physical representation of my emotional regulation, but all those coping skills I had picked up stayed with me. 

The next day I walked out of my room, nothing sheltering my fingers or wrists. And for the first time in 3 years, I was okay with that; I no longer needed an object to hold me together. I still wear bracelets and rings from time to time, but I haven't snapped one since. I now wear these items for aesthetics, not survival.