Lycanthropia Vernal

Spring isn’t here yet. I know this because I’m not a werewolf. I don’t mean this literally but I don’t exactly mean this figuratively either. I mean that I haven’t broken free from the oppressive weight that winter binds me with. The seasonal affective disorder that makes me a prisoner of my own thoughts and feelings, robbing me of my faculties and willpower. Stealing my supernatural powers. Do I really believe that I have super powers? You might ask. Well, it had been observed since my youth by many a teacher, counselor and professional of various description that I was in several ways gifted. Though because of this I would tune out, go into my own mind and lose focus on that which was asked of me. I was fortunate to avoid an ADD diagnosis. I never lacked the capability for attention, I simply elected not to award it to things I deemed trivial. Adults were never considered authoritative on the subject of what was important in my mind.

My gifted mind educated itself in a rather round about, trial and error process. I’ve learned alarmingly little from schools. I would say that I actually absorbed about the first four grades worth of education. Then grade seven science, grades ten and eleven advanced English, also grade ten science and math. After these I felt as though I was finished with school. Until I decided to go to college for art.

Not long before college I began noticing certain things about women at certain times. Specifically in the spring and summer I had begun to notice quite keenly a smell. It was subtle and raw. A musky, heady olfactory flourish. I likened it to the combination of hunger and sexual desire. Later because of a girlfriend and her roommate I determined that it was a woman’s cycle I was smelling. After I’d determined this it made certain situations awkward. I only seemed to have the capability in spring and summer. For a time I thought because of all the extra clothes, however even indoors it wasn’t functional. With many years of smoking it has been dampened dramatically yet in the spring I still experience it slightly.

When puberty finally reached the top few gears and Jack arrived a plethora of unusual talents came with him. I could memorize songs almost instantly, take untold amounts of drugs, charm girls with relative ease and function on little or no sleep. I wrote poetry. Perhaps I’m biased but I found it to be evocative and powerful. I did this until I was fairly convinced that poetry was a dead art form. However, in the daytime my energy was shot. I thrived between noon to six in the morning, roughly. In the city I became a rooftop dweller, I knew how to gain access to the tops of all the downtown buildings. I never engaged in what you’d call free running though I was quite agile.

In my nocturnal adventures to keep myself entertained and make money I became a jack of all trades criminal. I’m not particularly proud of this now and it was rather foolish and childish. Amongst my proletariat group of friends theft was constant. We live in an age where if something isn’t locked or bolted down even the honest man is likely to rob you. We were the enforcers of this rule.  If you consumed drugs that meant you sold drugs. Everyone was a connection.

All of these things changed for me rather rapidly when I went honest. I’ve always been a hard worker. I have always had access to labour jobs due to my honest, blue collar father. Shortly after starting one such job I was visiting friends, doing drugs when a guy who was there threatened me with a knife. At this point in time I was all raw wiry muscle so I told him as a clear fact that I would take the knife from him if he tried and then I would use it on him.  He realized I wasn’t kidding and relented, putting the knife away. My friend Calvin and I went to the club for about two hours then returned. When I got back with him he went to his room and returned a minute later and sent me home in a cab. I was perplexed. By the next weekend it came out that while we were out at the club that same guy and his friend in that same apartment as guests of Calvin’s roommates had beat to death our friend Stanley with a baseball bat.

After this I began to shut down. Not because of grief nor the close call. Not because of the shock at the realization of mortality. No I had always been quite comfortable with death. This was because I had realized that it didn’t matter. It was him and that hadn’t bothered me. It could have just as easily been me and that also wouldn’t have mattered.  I felt a little bit guilty that I didn’t care.  On the surface I cared, I understood that people were shocked and grieving though it didn’t bother me personally.  This triggered a serious downswing for me and I became slightly more depressed than usual.  It held long enough for me to lose my job due to inaction.  I simply stopped going.  I tried sleeping around in the vain attempt to snap myself out of it to no avail.   That’s when I received a letter from Trixie.  She was living in the big city and having a great time and wanted to know what was so important that I couldn’t come and visit?  A visit turned into a roughly six and a half year excursion that included attending one of the nations premiere art schools.  For one year.

The big city was a cornucopia of debauchery and delights for Jack.  Meanwhile, old Dysphorian had to pick up the tab and tow the line.  I had very excellent times and I suffered some of my very worst bouts of depression here.  You have to understand that I didn’t even know that I was depressed, I thought all people felt the same as me.  I truly believed that others were simply better at coping or managing their downs and that I was just not getting it.  I thought that Jack was my true personality when I wasn’t feeling glum.  That when I did the random, over-the-top, crazy, exciting things that Jack did, I was finally expressing myself and letting my hair down.

What it comes down to is the truth lies somewhere in between.  That a more balanced me, a medicated me isn’t relying on a manic push to deal with long periods of crushing depression.  That with effort and medication I can become a regular, boring mortal just like everyone else.  Except I’m keeping my spring werewolf for life.  You won’t take that from me.  I’ll also never fear death, we’ve been in love for far too long and I know all of her erogenous zones and weak points.


One response to “Lycanthropia Vernal

  1. I got really bad SAD this year- the worst I have ever had. The depression was like a physical weight upon me, and it was suffocating. In spring, I became hypomanic. My hypomania has begun to turn into a mixed episode, then a depressive episode. I hate it. I hope I get hypomanic again, it’s better than the dysphoric state I’m in now.

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