October 30th

The sound of my phone’s alarm slices into my consciousness like a knife through jello. The brightness sears my vision, flashing the date, October 30th. As if I could afford to forget that tomorrow is Halloween. And not just any Halloween, but the kind that only comes around once in a blue moon.

Groaning, I swipe my finger across the screen to shut it off. I really don’t want to get up. I don’t particularly want to be awake, either. It’s pitch dark, my muscles are throbbing, and the sheets smell like stale sweat. 

Fuck, that’s right--I went out last night. The insomnia was bad, and lying there staring at the clock was worse, so I jogged around the neighborhood until I was practically unable to keep my eyes open.

I remember the moon hovering over everything. Waxing. Waiting. I shiver.

My body is practically paralyzed, and I lie there for a period of time-- ten, twenty minutes, or maybe just a few seconds--before laboriously prising myself out of bed. Showering is out of the question by now, so I lather on deodorant until the scent is masked.   

A more pleasant aroma awaits me downstairs, as I slump into the kitchen to find that my dad is frying bacon. On a weekday, especially so close to that time, this is a telltale sign that a concerned conversation is imminent.

That’s the last thing I want right now. But there’s no turning back, so I grab a few pieces of bacon and gnaw on them.    

“Good morning, Noah,” says Dad. 

“Morning,” I grunt.

“You went running again last night, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I admit.

He sighs. “You know, you could try the sleeping pills Dr. Kim recommended. They worked well for me.”

“Mmm.”

“So I met a lot of your teammates and their families at the banquet last Tuesday. Jason, Mark, Elijah . . . they all seem nice.”

Damn it. Monosyllabic responses do not seem to be deterring him. “Yeah, they are. That’s why I hang out with them.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re making friends.” Dad pauses, and for a second the room is consumed with sizzling noises and crackling tension. Then he says tentatively, “Do they know you have lycanthropy?”

And there it is. I tear off another bite of bacon, desperately avoiding eye contact.

Still, he persists, saying, “You should really tell people. I understand there’s stigma, but if they’re really you’re friends, they won’t judge you. It took a long time for me to tell my loved ones all those years ago, but trust me, it’s better than trying to hide it.”

“It’s not a big deal," I say.

“It is a big deal, Noah. This is about your safety. Aren’t you going out with them tomorrow? What if you have an episode?”

“Dad, that’s not going to happen,” I say firmly. “I gotta go. I’ll see you after practice.”

“They don’t need to take on your burden,” he calls after me. “But at least they can avoid adding to it!”

“Literally no one cares,” I mutter as the door slams shut.

God, I’m such an asshole. I know he’s trying his best to support me, but somehow the knowledge doesn’t lessen my desire to avoid interacting with him at all costs. It's his fault that I'm this messed up in the first place.

On the bus, I lean back into the seat and idly watch a freshman teach his friend to write Mandarin curse words, tracing them in the fogged up window. Fucking suburban kids. Where I’m from, window graffiti is just penises and the occasional c-word.

Dad’s version of high school is such a fantasy that sometimes I wonder if he was ever even a teenager. He talks like a motivational poster, just be yourself and the power of friendship wins the day. Then again, he was a football player, so maybe that was his reality. 

It’s so much easier to avoid all that, even if it means the kids at this school think I’m acting weird a few days every month. Friendships are meant to be casual and convenient. No one needs to burden each other with their personal shit.

But at least they could avoid adding to it. Please. How could they possibly make my mental issues any worse?

The hallway is a beehive of activity that I drift aimlessly through, past classroom doors adorned with tacky ghosts and toothy jack-o-lanterns. One of the worst parts about having a disorder like lycanthropy that’s seasonally affective is that all the best holidays are wasted on me. Instead of causing excitement, Christmas, Thanksgiving, and even Halloween festivities all point to the absolute worst time of the year. I wouldn’t have to hate Halloween if Halloween didn’t hate me.

I press my head against the back of my locker, savoring the sensation of cold metal. It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. I just have to get through today and tomorrow.   

“Byrnes!”

Mark Li, somehow bursting with energy at seven in the morning, saunters over to me with his girlfriend in tow. I rub my eyes and do a double take. He’s decked out in a t-shirt layered over long-sleeved black and white stripes, multiple chains, and tiny hearts under his eyes. Amelia’s wearing her cheerleader uniform and ghoulish face paint. 

“Whoa,” I say. “What is up with your clothes?” 

“Can’t you tell, man? I’m an e-girl.” He grins, showing off his black nail polish.   

“Okay, but why?”

“Hello . . . it’s spirit week? Wear your costume to school day? It’s the team theme?”

I blink back at him.

“Dude, where have you even been for the past four days? You know, as a new person, and cross country member, you should really be more up to date with school spirit.” 

“Yeah, Noah,” says Amelia. “Juniors need to represent!” 

I shrug, and point at her face paint. “Isn’t zombie cheerleader supposed to be, I don’t know, bloodier?”

“It’s actually ghost cheerleader,” she replies. “I’m subverting the trope! Just imagine, no one can see them, but you hear that cheery voice, hyping you up in the dead of night . . .”

“Blah, blah, blah,” says Mark. “She’s just trying to distract from the fact that I obviously have the superior costume. Tell me I didn’t completely nail this look.”

“You nailed it, I guess,” I say.

“You really did,” Amelia says, laughing. “You totally give off those emo-wolf vibes.”

Something in my chest seizes up at the word wolf. We’re going there? Now, today, of all days?

“Seriously though,” Mark is saying, “how many people at this school just say they’re wolfish for the attention?”

“Mark!” Amelia chastises. “You shouldn’t say that. Wolfishness can be serious.”

“Come on, you have to admit it’s basically part of the emo culture to be . . . what’s it called? Lycanthropic? It’s, like, artsy or edgy or whatever.”

“That’s so offensive,” she says because she has to, but she’s obviously trying not to laugh.

“Come on,” says Mark. “You’re on TikTok. Tell me I’m wrong!” He turns to me and frowns. “Byrnes, you all right, man?”

“Uh-huh,” I force myself to say. The volume of my headache is now all the way up, not the mention the clenched-up fist of rage in my chest. I didn’t choose this, I want to scream. “Just tired. I’ll see you later, okay?”   

“Hey, you’re going to Elijah’s party tomorrow, yeah?” he calls. “Blue moon, so who knows what kind of psychos will be out?”

I don’t respond, letting the chaotic hallway envelop me once again. Half of me wants to punch him, but the other half knows he’s kind of right. Not about the psycho thing, obviously, or the attention thing. But the artsy and edgy appeal, the fact that lycanthropy is borderline trendy these days, holds some truth.

I would be lying if I said it doesn’t bother me. I mean, I’ve spent my entire life cursing my genetics, my brain chemistry, desperately wishing to be rid of it all. And sure, most people experience mild symptoms every now and then, but that’s not the same as a chronic, clinical, medical condition. A disease.

It sucks that this illness can be romanticized, but still not completely accepted. I’ve heard it all--psycho, lunatic, animal. Hell, I would bet good money that at least some of the guys on the team still subscribe to the myth that it’s contagious.

And of course there are people who will think I should just suck it up, call me a pussy for using medication and therapy instead of fighting it off like a “man”. There are some who--like Mark, apparently--would claim that it’s not even a real disease, that I’m just making things up for attention. There are the constant minor aggravations, like this one guy from my old school who thought he was hilarious for saying “Watch out, it’s Noah’s time of the month” and making exaggerated howling noises. It all builds up.

Fuck. First period hasn’t even started yet, and I’m already completely drained. That bodes really well for what's to come.

Halfway through History, I taste blood, and realize that I have been chewing the inside of my cheek raw. In French, the hairs on my neck start to stand on end, even though the thermostat is way up. By the time Chemistry rolls around, my skin is prickling all up and down my arm. All the while, my headache continues to pound like a bass line.

Why is this happening? For mid-autumn, the symptoms aren’t usually this bad. Unless it’s the imminent blue moon that’s fucking me up more than usual.

Practice is the best and worst part of my day. Almost all of the other guys are sporting the monochromatic e-girl regalia, so that pretty much sucks, but I almost don’t care as soon as we start running, because for once, I’m in control of my body. My legs burn from last night, but it feels good. For now at least, my pain has a purpose. 

I don’t normally run with music, but I cannot deal with the sound of Mark’s chains clinking with each step, so I blast the loudest songs I can find, letting the volume and frequencies assault my eardrums. It’s way more bearable than my own thoughts, and between the cacophony and physical strain, my mental turmoil is drowned out--at least for now.  

The workout ends, but I don’t want to stop, so I end up just jogging the two and a half miles home. Of course there are no fucking sidewalks, but if a yoga mom hits me with her minivan it would probably be for the best.

I get home to find a container of pork lo mein on the kitchen table, and the door to Dad’s room closed. I guess his concern about me only does so much to distract from his own symptoms. There’s a note along with the takeout: I’m taking the day off work tomorrow. I know it’s Halloween, but if you need a MHD, feel free to take one. 

Dad is a firm believer in mental health days. Ever since eighth grade, when it started getting bad for me, he would often let me stay home during the peak of our episodes, making sure I ate, showered, took my meds. We would watch Friends together, curled up on the couch. That used to be a sort of coping ritual of ours.

When did I start pushing him away along with everything else?

Speaking of pushing things away, it’s going to take the excuse of a lifetime to get out of Elijah’s party, especially since Mark is already wholly invested in my social life. 

But just thinking about showing up feeling like this makes my skin crawl. In a way, it would be easier if it were winter already, because then an episode would be pretty much guaranteed, and the decision would be a no-brainer. And if it were late October on a normal year, my symptoms would be mild. I mean, I’d definitely still feel like shit, but at least I might be able to hide it. 

But the blue moon throws a giant wrench into predictability. All I know from Dad and Dr. Kim is that I may experience more intense depression and more heightened mood swings. They didn’t tell me anything about psychosis. 

My phone buzzes. I check it and see that the cross country Instagram account has posted pictures of the “e-girls” from earlier today, with the caption The e-pocalypse is upon us! Nothing seXCier than a pack of sad wolf bois ready to howl at the moon.

And there it is again. Wearing black and being emo is automatically seen as wolfish, in a glamorous and hot way--not to mention “howl at the moon”, a euphemism for the exact kind of psychotic episodes I was dreading just a few moments ago.

It’s more than just the usual tone-deaf bullshit, it actually makes me angry. Because I know for a fucking fact that there are a lot of things sexier than a “sad wolf boi”. There is nothing glamorous about tearing your bedsheets, your hair, your skin in nighttime fits of restlessness, running for miles in the dead of night just to escape the panic coursing through your veins. There is nothing cute or hot about being unable to function during daylight hours, and losing grip on reality itself on a monthly basis.

There’s nothing poetic about it; I really am broken. My brain is like an egg someone dropped on the floor, gross and messy and completely undesirable. 

The comments are a mixed bag, everything from this caption lowkey problematic to y’all really went as lunatics lmao. Seeing the word “lunatic,”--a slur I heard a thousand times at my old school--somehow makes my blood boil more knowing it’s not directed at me.

I scroll down further to see that Mark has tagged me in the comments: @feel_the_byrnes Join us . . . got a collar with ur name on it buddy.

It’s just . . . wrong. It’s not even the fact that I feel personally targeted, because I don’t. It’s that someone who means so well is still okay with saying something like that--to anyone, even the new kid he’s only known for two months. They’re all okay with it. Or maybe they just seem to be, because--like me, I realize--they’ve said nothing about it.

What am I even scared of anymore? Trying to ignore everything was meant to be easier, but just getting through this day has been torture.

Before I know it, I’m typing a reply.

@sparkly_markli @chesterfieldmensxc Enough is enough. I’m tired of standing by while you make light of a serious issue. Lycanthropy is a mental illness, not a fucking costume. People die from this shit.

My thumbs stall. How do I end this meaningfully, strong but not incoherent? What exactly am I trying to say?

Then, it comes to me.

For so many people, it’s a lifelong burden. Please do not add to it.

I post the comment and immediately flip my phone over, pressing the off button like it will deactivate a bomb. Then I head straight for the shower, and let the scalding hot water wash over my skin. I relish being temporarily lightheaded. Empty-headed.

Once the steam disperses, though, the cold fog in my head is back. But it's not enough for me to lose sight of what I need to do.

I gently knock on his door.

“Hey, Dad?”

A crack of light from the hall illuminates his bleary face. “Noah? Is that you?”

“Yeah. I just needed to say, you were right. About everything.”

“Oh,” he says, bemused. “Well, good.”

“Good,” I repeat. “And, Dad? I am going to take an MHD tomorrow. I was thinking we could watch Friends.”

At first I just stand there awkwardly. Am I way too old for this? Was that stupid? That was probably stupid.

“I’d like that,” he says.