Not Me and the Worm

Chapter 1: The Worm

The Worm lives in all of us, never dormant, always ready, coiled like a spring. He bides his time and chooses his moment; sometimes it's a minor incident, a cup dropped, a bill missed, a word misconstrued. Sometimes he unwinds slowly, building the discomfort, the unease, carving into self-confidence and self-belief over days, months, years with a steady inevitability. Sometimes he strikes suddenly, biting the stomach, the head, the limbs, leaving his victim shaken, broken, small. And sometimes he just stays asleep.

The Worm is indiscriminate. His victims are young and old, rich and poor, healthy and sick, celebrity and non-entity. He is the ultimate democrat, the great leveller, working the one-in-four stakes without discrimination.

We often prefer not to talk about him; it's a phase, it will pass, we should snap out of it,we need to get a grip, grow up, get a life. When he bites, we don't like to admit it; it's a weakness, a bit embarrassing really, best to pretend it didn't happen.

But The Worm is in all of us. He can be calmed, and quietened, and held at bay. But he will always be there, just below the surface, choosing his moment.

Chapter 2 - The Book

It is midday and he is sitting on the sofa in his front room, drenched in sweat. It's not an exercise sweat, though he has been for a walk; it is a cold, acrid, sharp sweat, the sweat of illness and fear.

Earlier, he spent an hour and a half walking round the room. He couldn't settle, but couldn't leave the safety of this cocoon, and it was an activity he knew he could do, comforting, repetitive, easy, unthreatening in its simplicity.

There is a book on the sofa next to him. David would read this book, easily, quickly, enjoying the act of reading whether or not the book was any good. But David is in the pocket in his brain. He is not David, or Daddy, or Hubby or DT. He exists as NotMe, a carcass with little more than the most basic sensations for whom all activity costs supreme physical and mental effort.

NotMe wants to sleep, curled up in a foetal ball, shutting out all the things he can no longer do. He can feel, physically; his stomach churns like an old cement mixer, grinding away with an intensity with his GP says is imagined but which he knows is no dream. He can walk, and even managed a walk outside, intensely painful and laboured, a slow, anxious shuffle across the field, praying he wouldn't have to meet anyone he might have to speak to, aching to get back to the reclusive safety of the room. He can't drive; he can't read; he can shower, if he sets a specific time in the day to do it and carefully plans out every aspect. He has managed to get his daughters up and out for school, though the effort exhausted him, and he knows he will make tea and have a perfectly ordinary conversation when the man from the Crisis team arrives later that day; he will take David out the pocket on his brain, dust him down and wear him like a mask until he has gone again.

The consultant says he has had a breakdown, and in a rare moment of clarity he sees how accurate a description this is; he is a broken down car, he needs a complete rebuild, his engine has stopped working.

From inside his pocket, David is saying he should read the book. But NotMe is scared of the book; it is secret, closed, mysterious, it will challenge him to do more than just be, he will have to think. And NotMe can't think; thinking is what got him here in the first place, so no more of that.

The Worm says he shouldn't read; reading is for real people, and he isn't one yet.

And yet...

The David voice inside his brain-pocket says 'Have a look at the pictures. That can't hurt; they're just pictures'. NotMe picks up the book; it feels like a brick, heavy, scratchy, unyielding. But he takes a deep breath, and opens the first photo page.

He recognises the photos; pictures of rock stars and TV celebrities from the early 80s; he thinks David might have seen some of them in concert years ago. Without thinking, he reads the text to find out who they are. David reminds him of a concert when he was at University, an encore of old Ray Charles numbers played on a honky-tonk piano, dancing to the boogie-woogie beat. NotMe realises his wants to find out more, and he turns to the first page.

A minor victory is won.

Chapter 3 - The Car

NotMe has read a whole book, and enjoyed it. He has walked across the field and noticed sights, sounds and scents. He has managed more than a strained 'Morning' to the people he met on his walk. And now he is sat in David's car.

David tells him he used to love driving; the independence, the speed, singing to the radio or CD player. He used to love this car, too: a little red Fiat he always said would be a Ferrari when it grew up.

But that was years ago, another life, a different person. NotMe doesn't drive; it's too far, too fast, too responsible, too joined-up, too everything. Much easier to say he can't, let someone else do it, not him, don't ask him to do it, please don't.

But now he is behind the wheel and has started the engine.

Maybe just to the end of the road. That's not far.

NotMe is sweating again; acrid, sour, scared. But he puts the car in reverse and slowly creeps off the driveway. He is in the road; now he is going forward, very slowly but steadily. He drives through the village, turns and comes back again. He parks up in the driveway, but leaves the engine running. He turns on the radio, reverses off the driveway, and repeats the journey. And laughs. The first laugh, a crack in the ice, a chink in the armour. No-one has died, thinks NotMe.

The Worm stirs. Too fast, it thinks, too soon. Time to reign this in.

And suddenly NotMe realises he is outside, in the open, exposed, outside the womb. He fumbles for his keys, rushes into the house, curls up on the sofa, his stomach grinding. He is still there two hours later when his daughters get home from school.

Chapter 4 - Memory

NotMe is on fire. He is buzzing, vibrating, electric with a manic energy he cannot control. He is exhausted, but he cannot sleep or rest; his mind is like his body, febrile, fevered, working overtime. He sits, but has to stand again; he lies down but starts to shake; he closes his eyes but can still see, flashes, incidents, images playing over and over, flickering, unclear, on overload. Every image is connected but broken, random but ordered, answers to questions he has not asked and does not understand.

He sees time pass, an hour, a minute, a whole night, he can't be sure. He can't keep still and he can't stop the tape.

He sees a meeting with the bank; two faceless individuals whose features have no sharp edges. They talk about a great year, for them, not for him; they offer up a prayer to fiscal discipline; and they reduce his credit facility by 80%. He sees himself in the toilet, burning up, anxious, heart racing, unable to calm down, taking deep breaths as he starts to panic, splashing his face with cold water as he slowly calms down. He sees himself on the phone to staff who are his friends, his charges, his surrogate family. He hears himself telling them he can no longer afford to employ them. He sees himself alone after each call, crying quietly as his stomach starts to churn.

He sees another meeting, sitting at a table signing forms, guaranteeing to repay all loans and debts, reading employment contracts, trying to understand financial reports which go over his head and which are irrelevant in the face of that pledge. He sees himself feeling small, tired, scared. Out of his depth.

He sees a group of people having a celebratory drink, a deal done, jobs secured. Someone says 'well done', but he sees himself looking exhausted, dead, drained.

He sees spreadsheets, targets; he sees unwelcome glances and hostile murmurs; he sees expectations unfulfilled, management unsure, a 'big company' culture he cannot live up to.

He feels the Worm dancing, twisting, devouring; it drums its broken rhythm in his head, his stomach, his limbs, it turns the projector, adjusts the focus, works his emotions to the point of no return. It breaks him down.

Chapter 5 - Doctor

NotMe exists. No more, no less. He functions; limbs move, food and drink are consumed, there is asleep and awake. But there is no emotion, no spirit, no engagement. His soul is dead.

Earlier David saw the consultant at the hospital. The previous day, he had tried to speak to his GP on the phone, his mind racing, his reason frayed, his courage exhausted. He asked for a home visit; he could not comprehend a journey to the surgery, he felt sure driving would be dangerous and sitting in the waiting room was certainly beyond him, he had not sat for more than 30 seconds at a time all day. He could feel panic rising inside him like an over-boiling pot; the Worm was already in control.

The GP was impatient; David could drive to the surgery and he would fit him in but he would have to wait. Palpable impatience as David tried to explain. No compromise, no deal, no visit. Come in or get off the phone.

David drove at a snail's pace, terrified. Children were coming out of school; he had to negotiate parked cars, a lollipop lady, a bus; so many obstacles, so many people, such a long way. Everything was a risk, nothing and no-one was safe. The effort of concentration saw him stagger into the surgery, drained and sweating profusely, shaking, squinting, trying to speak slowly to the receptionist, forcing himself into the prison of the chair, sitting on his hands to stop the quivering.

The GP was still impatient; he talked to David like an inconvenience, an attention-seeking blagger who should get a grip, pull himself together, stop the hysterionics. He gave David a box of tablets and wrote a prescription, he told David it was for an antidepressant that should start to work after about 6 weeks, and he dismissed him. Five minutes. David was in in his room for 5 minutes.

As David reached his car, the Worm started to somersault in his stomach, a burning, churning rotation so real he struggled to sit down. The drive home was torture, a rotary saw in his guts. He remembered 6 weeks - 6 weeks - as he got back to his front room. Through the panic and the sweat, he saw and felt the disconnect - his need wass immediate, instant, here and now. Six minutes was a lifetime; six weeks could be a funeral.

The box of tablets contained tranquilisers, and David took one, pacing the room as he waited for it to take effect. Nothing happened. He t the ookantidepressant, willing it to calm him, let him rest, slow him down. Nothing happened.

He paced the room for 2 hours until his wife got home. He took another tranquiliser and went to bed. Nothing happens. He spent the night getting in and out of bed, walking the tiny square of floor space in the spare room, kneeling on the floor, standing and looking out of the window, buzzing, sweating, agitated, frantic. He couldn't keep still; the Worm was dancing.

This morning his wife took him to A&E. He tried to keep still in the waiting room, not to fidget or pace. Nurses from the crisis team saw him immediately and gave him a tablet and some water. The effect was instant; he felt calm, relaxed, able to talk and joke with everyone, he was David again. The consultant was on his way, he was told; no hurry, he said, I'm actually feeling OK at the moment.

He needed the toilet and left the consulting room. Suddenly, and without warning, the Worm bit; there were people in the waiting area, they were watching him, he would have to walk past them to get to the toilet. Please don't speak to him, don't ask him anything, don't expect anything from him. He was a mess when he got back to the room, dancing a frenetic polka to the Worm's twisted melody.

Another tablet and another period of calm. The nurse chased up the consultant; he would be there soon, he said. Another dance, another tablet.

The consultant arrived. He explained to David that he was suffering from acute anxiety and depression. He said the GP was inefficient and unhelpful. He administered more tablets. he told David to come back in a week. He was kind but firm. And his leg twitched. All the time.

Now NotMe is in bed. He is not asleep. His mind is dead. But he will get through today at least.