i am a worm.

Fun fact: I used to be a worm. 

At least that’s what my mum told me.

A few years ago I asked her what she thought I had been in a previous life, and her first words: ミミズ “a worm”. I didn’t know how to react. A worm? A creature of significance for sure, like plankton and a safety pin, but I don’t think I’d ever given more than a few seconds thought about worms in the three decades of my life so far. And now here I was being told that it was in my provenance. (This is my mum’s third time being human, so she’s most likely right about past lives and such.)

At the time, I ignored it, because my mum is a weirdo. 

But the last couple years have been a running series of the hunger games, and at every moment where my strength, confidence, will, belonging and recognition were questioned, I remembered that apparently I was once a worm. 

It’s a humbling thought. 

A pink, squishy, oblong thing, that kids enjoy picking up with sticks and shove in other each other’s faces (à la Twilight). They eat dirt and poop dirt. They have no eyes. I often find them squished between blades of grass in a field or the side of the road. 

They are single handedly responsible for the ecosystem of dirt, of recycling crap and trash, of keeping the soil fertile. They know where Mario hid Paulie’s body, they know where that corporation is disposing the suspicious liquid, they’ll remember where you buried your time machine, and don’t worry, they’ve been looking after your pet goldfish this whole time - fyi, they’ve moved onto the next life.

We love to see the big beasts of this planet roar and humpback splash, making themselves, the animal kingdom and their primal/animalistic forces known. But really it’s the silent, itty bitty creatures that make the biggest waves. The onslaught of ants on a carcass, the bees literally keeping the pyramid stable, the mice of NYC’s keeping all our immunity on its toes. Maybe it’s the worms of the earth that feel, that senses and has compassion. 

ミミズ from Suzume [Shinkai, 2022]

When I was younger I was always deemed sensitive. 

“Why are you crying?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s nothing worth getting upset over.”

“It’s okay, you’ll get over it.”

“Erica, you’re so sensitive.”

A hyper-empath, a trait that’s a source of my ongoing heartache and tears. A hyper-empath feels and absorbs the emotions of those around them, often leaving one to not be able to identify one’s own emotions or set boundaries for self-care and preservation. It’s not the over-generous acts, or superlative praises, or presentation performances that I understood, but the words unsaid, the unconscious motives, and natural silences that I felt most comfortable.

I remember when this girl wouldn’t share the school scooter and made the next girl who’s turn it was cry, and when I confronted her she looked me dead in the eye and slowly scratched to bleed - I still have the scars on the back of my hand (5yr old’s nails are SHARP!). As I got older, the hurts, the cuts, the bruises were deeper, not lighter. Someone chose to be a friend, my bf, a partner, an aide, and how dare you cause them/me pain! I’ve cried too many tears over people who have left gaping holes in my heart and numbed my senses of trust and to find community. 

As my friends come and go to wherever else they’d prefer to be, I know I’m not alone. The independent creatures, with and without eyes, look out for me - where I am, what I’m eating, what I’ve discovered, how I’m feeling. A worm wriggles and scriggles through the earth, on its own, but never alone. They have friends in the woodlice, and grasshoppers, a casual curtsy to the local spider named Charlotte. 

Did you know that most worms can regenerate? 

My heart shrivels and petrifies with every betrayal and heartbreak. My soul withers, that it’s not worthy of their connection or affection or sincerity or compassion. In the past there’s been times where it’s taken a year or two before I can finally talk about someone who once was without getting emotional, but we got there. 

I must’ve been regenerating. 

There’s no other explanation. 

Worms don’t regenerate because they want to, it’s just instinctive. 

Maybe that’s what my mother was also trying o imply. That while I’ve been left with red puffy eyes and in fetal position shaking on the floor in a dark room, I instinctively, inside, slowly, discreetly, was coming back to life. And then next thing I know, I’m smiling in photos again and making new friends, and exploring new grounds. 

I don’t know what I’ll be in my next life yet, but if it’s a worm again I won’t be mad. I mean, I’d like to be something else like a cypress tree or a cat, but I wouldn’t be upset as a good old earthworm.