I Get Werewolves

                First off, I want to be clear. I'll be talking about some of the things that are wrong in my head in this blog.  That's kind of the point of it.  So trigger warnings, I guess, for discussion of self harm and suicide. Don't want anyone running into those topics when they're not ready for them.

Anyways, let's get officially started.

                I get werewolves.

                Fuck, I’m sorry. That’s a weird place to start. But look, werewolves represent the fear of the bestial nature that waits inside all of mankind. At least, to me they do. Other people might say they’re about blurring the line between man and nature, or Christian corruptions of ancient shamanistic rites, or an excuse for getting naked and running around the woods and biting each other’s necks. Whatever. To me, it’s all about the beast inside, waiting to come out. Vampires, zombies, aliens from planet Glout, they’re all about fear of the other. Werewolves are about fear of the self. I get that.

                Before you get any ideas, let me clear a few things up. I don’t howl at the moon. I don’t grow hair on my palms. I’ve never seriously hurt anyone else (not physically, not with fists and claws and fangs). My beast isn’t bound to any lunar or solar cycle that I’ve been able to track (though in my mystical phase I tried a couple).

                It’s entirely possible that it’s the simple result of a chemical balance in my brain. I haven’t ever been examined conclusively by a medical professional. I had a couple chats with a councilor through my college, but it didn’t seem likely to help, and things got better on their own. For a while.

                Sometimes I get sad and angry for no reason. Once, I told my best friend that she was a manipulative slut who used people up because she liked having someone to pay attention to her. Once, when another friend tried to take a picture of me while I wasn’t feeling particularly photogenic, I threw a heavy plastic water bottle at his head.  I missed. Better people than I deserve, they both forgave me, but I’m not sure either has really forgot that I’m broken.

                More often, I’ve hurt myself. I’ve punched a tree until I’d broken more than a couple bones in my hand. I’ve drawn bloody lines down my arms and legs with razors. Once I considered killing myself with pills. Once I stood on the edge of a bridge over a busy highway and contemplated flinging myself down. There are definitely times when I think that my life would be easier if I had a loyal manservant to chain me to the wall when necessary.

               So yeah, I get werewolves. I haven’t talked to people about this, much. Some combination of shame and pride and machismo, I guess.  I don’t want anyone to know how badly I’m broken, and I feel like I should be able to put myself back together without anyone’s help. This blog is supposed to be the first step in getting over that. I figure if I can talk about it with strangers, I’ll eventually be able to talk about it with the people I care about.