MY ROYAL WORM

How I met my gremlin

“Your wife is dead, and you’re stressing about your stupid job.”

That’s what I screamed into my pillow at 3 a.m. after tossing and turning all night, fuming over something that happened at work.

It had been seven months since my wife, Judy, passed away. I was fortunate enough not to have to work right away after her death. Besides, there were no editing jobs anyway. Hollywood was slowly turning into a ghost town.

So when I finally went back to work on a show I regularly edited with many of my friends, I was actually excited. I thought it would be a good distraction. Less time to wallow. And since her passing had given me a new perspective on life, I figured I wouldn’t be my usual self.

You see, when I work on something, I can get somewhat… intense. Some might call it prickly. Others, I’m just being a downright prick. So when I started working again, I genuinely thought I had turned a new leaf. I was going to be a calm, cool cucumber throughout the entire project.

Three weeks into the show, I got a note from my boss that sent me through the roof.

“Has he lost his mind?”
“He’s ruining the show.”
“Well, this thing is a turd sandwich now.”

I reverted right back to my old ways. Wanting to argue. To fight. Barely holding my tongue.

So I lay there at three in the morning, screaming into my pillow.

I couldn’t believe it. My wife was dead, and here I was losing my mind over some silly reality TV show. The show would be fine with or without the note. It would still air. People would either watch it or they wouldn’t. Life would move on.

And yet, I could not let it go.

To distract myself, I grabbed a book off my nightstand. Anything. I didn’t care. Fumbling around in the dark, I knocked one onto the floor. This one:

Taming Your Gremlin: A Guide to Enjoying Yourself.

I had bought it years ago. I remembered reading it, but it hadn’t really landed at the time.

This time, it hit hard.

I realized the first time around, I had just read it. I hadn’t actually done any of the exercises. This time, I did.

One of the core ideas in the book is to identify your gremlin, that inner voice, aka your ego. It suggests you give it a form. A personality. Even a name.

Mine is called The Royal Worm.

Artwork by Emma Anderson

He’s a slimy, blotchy greem, bloated worm coiled atop a throne, wearing a golden crown. He thinks he’s brilliant. A misunderstood genius. The hardest worker in every room. He pushes me to grind harder, do better, be the best. And when anyone questions me—or worse, gives me a note he doesn’t like—he rears up and spits venom.

“How dare they?”
“I’m the one who makes them look good.”
“These people would be nothing without me.”

The Royal Worm also has expensive taste. He expects an extraordinary life. Recognition. Validation. Applause. An average, quiet existence offends him. And if I try to slow down or relax, he nags me relentlessly until I get up and start doing something to building that cathedral in his honor.

I spent the rest of the night reading and working through the book. At the end of it, I realized I needed to do something my therapist had suggested before when I was struggling with guilt over Judy’s death.

I needed to write to my Royal Worm.

Here’s part of what I wrote:

To my Royal Worm,

Please stop burrowing into my brain and making me act like an arrogant ass. You either let me become a better person in this life, or I will walk away and live a simpler one where you are neutered and left to wither on your throne.

Your oversized ego is making everything harder. All this anger and pressure, how is this helping? How is this helping us enjoy life?

Now, when the Royal Worm starts acting up, I do what the book suggests.

I witness him. I don’t try to shut him up or reason with him. I just let His Highness rant from his throne. And I’ve found that he usually loses his bluster pretty quickly.
Because when you witness it, you stop being it. And that’s often enough.

And if he ever throws a truly unhinged hissy fit, I grab my journal and write directly to him. Something about putting pen to paper makes him shrink fast. Suddenly, the king looks more like a pauper.

I’ve also realized how much of my grief-driven guilt comes straight from the Royal Worm. He’s the one who berates me for not saving my wife. For not being a perfect husband. He’s the main source of my Should Have’s and What if’s.

After that long night with him, things eventually settled. It took time, but I let the work situation go.

Life is still bumpy, because life always is. But after months of therapy, reading, and writing things out here, I feel less like I’m serving the Royal Worm’s demands.

And who knows, maybe someday, we’ll learn to rule together.

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