A Chemical Imbalance

“Do you think it was just, like, a chemical imbalance?”

I laughed without thinking. A quiet, panicked laugh. I hoped she couldn’t detect the soft shock on my face as I began to picture the monstrous machine that had been thrumming inside my head for years, its previously pristine pistons rusty from overuse. Of course, an operator had never been appointed for this unwieldy contraption which in my imagination took on the appearance of a pitiful science experiment, carelessly dismantled or perhaps assembled improperly years ago. When I blinked I could hear engines sputtering to a slow death, and test tubes shattering. I could feel the various liquids spilling, spreading, oozing, and I knew it was my fault. I had never been aware of the maintenance required in my brain until she had suggested it right now. I dabbed at my right ear to check for a leak but when I found it was dry I hastily crossed my arms and tried to smile, remembering. 

Pictures or diagrams or models of brains had always looked grotesque to me, like a bunch of worms clustered together, wrapped too tightly around each other to achieve any semblance of comfort or propriety. When I turned fourteen and my head began to hurt I thought the worms must have been temporarily rearranging their slimy bodies for my benefit, wriggling into a new position that might ease my pain. I would have thanked them for their kindness if they had, but after a month or so I observed that the hurt was still there and surmised it could not possibly take the worms this long to reorganize their disgusting cluster and I grew to resent them for their selfishness. Their irresponsibility had resulted in my embarrassment on numerous occasions, like the time I helplessly sobbed in front of my whole class when that boy asked to go to the dance with me and could not even manage to get out the words No, thank you as a result of the overwhelming pressure exerted by the invertebrates hiding behind my waterlogged eyes. I always blamed them for the outbursts I did not understand, like when I broke down crying for no discernible reason while watching TV with my father, and when I told him I’m sorry I’m sad all the time he responded by saying You’re not sad all the time! which made me feel infinitely worse. How could he not see it? 

Eventually, I resolved to avoid my reflection at all costs as I became convinced that the worms were attempting to get out, and the incessant aching was a result of their slow but steady escape mission. On days when my hair felt greasy, I figured that the microscopically tiny baby worms were making their way out of my skull through my hair follicles, mistaking my dirt-coloured locks for a soft retreat from the rain. I had reasoned that it must have been storming in my head. The excess rain had overflowed through my eye sockets. All I knew for certain was that I really could not show anyone my face. I could not imagine how foul I must have looked. When I closed my eyes and envisioned myself all I saw was a restless clump of pale pink, plump, putrid pests raging against the unforgiving precipitation terrorizing their natural habitat. I knew if I paused to examine my reflection, if I stared for long enough, I would find them trying to poke out through my dirt-coloured eyes and they would be awful and the storm would only increase in intensity. 

It seemed impossible to me that none of the worms had died after so many months of existing in such a small space. My next solution to the problem was to starve myself, therefore starving them, and I felt confident that this would not only reduce the torrent of torment in my head but also result in a better, more feminine external appearance. This did not work and seemed to anger the colony to the point that I could not focus during English class, which was usually a moment of reprieve, singular in its effectiveness at distracting me from the throbbing issue I constantly sought to solve. I worked endlessly to appease the worms before and after realizing I could not kill them, but in all of my endeavours I was never able to discover any reason why they would want to harm me when I did not do anything to them in the first place. 

The first time I got drunk the sensation I found most pleasant was the numbing of my head. I did not care for the taste of the beverages I consumed but nonetheless gulped them quickly in an effort to quiet the storm and the worms too. Attempting to sleep that night was torturous. I had never felt so heavy in my life. I guessed the worms had passed out, and perhaps fallen into my stomach which began to scream in agony, evidently unfamiliar with that unbearable temperament which was usually reserved for upstairs. It was never heaviness before, I thought, it used to be constant leakage. I glared at the ceiling for hours that night, willing it to crack down the middle and crumble and fall right on top of me so I might have a clear explanation for my inability to move. I never told anyone why I was the last one out of bed that morning, and they never asked. I only realized it did not actually matter when she called me crying later that day and told me what had happened to her after I said I’m going to bed.

She made it all so trivial, then and now. A chemical imbalance. The science experiment that had failed. Machinery, so much heavier than silly pink slimy things. I decided I would never tell her about my struggle against the worms. 

“Yeah, you’re right. That must have been it.”

Originally published in Chouette Magazine (2024)

Eileen Grant is a writer living in Montreal. Her prose and poetry have been published in The Veg and Chouette Magazine. She can be found on Instagram @eileenmgrant if anyone wants to chat about Sylvia Plath or Matt Maltese.