Not Enough came out of me like a homuncular chunk of greasy green cheese, oozing and bubbling pus that hissed and wheezed. Macro-snot meets goblin. I was taken aback. This had come out of me? How? Where? This had been inside me? How? Where? Seeing Not Enough, resting in its glop-puddle, less than a foot away from me, gave me reason to pause, speculate, bemoan, lament, puzzle, etc, as many moods and tones gripped me all at once, resulting in doped and fuzzy blankness. I had never imagined my sense and feeling of Not Enough as a physical entity, yet there it undeniably was, the remnants of existential puke. The bloblike creature was in the throes of a rhythmical pulsing and writhing that brought to mind agitated water. The rhythm of grief exposed to air and light. And the sound of this rhythm was like jelly being spread on paper in syncopated cadence.
You are Not Enough aren’t you, I said to the thing. The creature was mouthless, but words came from somewhere: I don’t know, am I?
Its mouthlessness didn’t stop it from grinning, that is I could sense a grin rending a patch of air between us, as if an invisible pressure distended into something grin-like, and from this I concluded that Not Enough had a sense of humor, sardonic for sure.
Why are you here, outside me? How are you here?
Didn’t you want to be rid of me, came the response. The words were somehow clear and fuzzy all at once. And neutral in the center.
You always dreamed of being enough, well now, with me out of the picture, or out of your inner, you can experience that. Think of me…
(here a pause, and if a mouth a tongue might have clucked, if eyebrows a quizzical arch might have raised)
Think of me as a tapeworm that has never allowed you to get full. I consumed everything you ate and left you perpetually hungry. It’s not fun to walk around with an empty feeling, is it? Now you will be able to eat and get full.
I was surprised by my next question, which felt sincere and tinged with melancholy: Where will you go?
I’m not sure. Maybe find another host. Maybe sink into the earth. Maybe take up piano lessons. I’m kidding about the piano lessons.
Despite the creature’s lack of eyes, a wink formed somewhere, or registered winkishly in my expanded field of perception.
After that, thick yellow gasses, rusty-mustard in tone, hissed their way, as if out of ventricles or organ pipes, from Not Enough and enveloped it. Once the smoke cleared, not enough was gone. Just a moist oval splotch where it had been.
I stared at the oval, at what was not there. For years I had wondered what my life would be like if Not Enough were not part of it, part of me, and how it had influential subliminal sway over every decision, action, motive, and so on. In many respects Not Enough had spurred me on, had driven me. Gurus could recite to me—You are enough—girlfriends would reassure—This is enough—but none of those claims ever superseded or usurped Not Enough’s crow-caw and murmurings—you’re not enough, this is not enough, it will never be enough.
The tapeworm was gone. Outed. I would be able to eat and get full. I was absolutely terrified. And wondered where motivation would come from, or if it would come at all. I had been abandoned. A part of me wanted to scream—Please, Not Enough, come back!
Could I go on without Not Enough gnawing at me, lashing me forward? I stared for a long time at the oval splotch where Not Ehad been. It was a mirror worth referring to.
