This month, millions of men all across the South like me silently struggle with a serious seasonal disorder. We are victimized by a condition that affects our behavior, sleep cycles, and ability to concentrate but have thus far been afraid to come forward publicly for fear of ridicule and misunderstanding.

Since society has ignored our plight and no support groups specialize in our treatment, after much soul-searching, I’ve finally decided to speak out. The condition to which I refer is Post-Deer-Season-Disorder. Okay, I’ve said it; and that was hard. But not as hard as waking up morning after morning and heading to work knowing that it’s over.

Deer hunting disorders affect men in different ways. For some it’s an intense but short-lived craving from Thanksgiving to New Year’s that draws them into the woods each Saturday. For others it’s a full-blown addiction dictating every free hour of their existence from the first of October to the end of January. Serious cases can lead to loss of interest, detachment from normal society, and even voluntary unemployment (just try to get any construction done during deer season).

I’m somewhere in between the two. For the past couple of months, even when I was working twelve hour days and had other responsibilities piling up, all day every day I dealt with an underlying distraction that just wouldn’t quit. I’m Craig Ziemba and I have a problem. Please don’t judge me, because my withdrawal is difficult enough without your condemnation.

Deer season hits especially hard for those of us who live in the country, because it’s always just right there, kind of like trying to be a dieter working at Krispy Kreme. If I lived in a city and had to commute, there’d be no temptation to squeeze 30 minutes in before work. But in my case, any amount of daylight is enough to hastily dress, grab my gun (and seven-year-old son), run down the hill into the woods, and climb a tree in a race against the clock.

The deer themselves are complicit in our addiction, seemingly sensing our weakness and preying on our limitations. It never fails that when I only have a few minutes to hunt before I must leave for work, herds of deer parade by like a rerun of Mutual of Omaha. They delight in taunting me when I don’t have time to clean a deer or when they know I won’t shoot unless the buck is big enough to justify being late for work.

But deer season’s past us now, and those of us with PDSD are coping in different ways. Some grasp the last straws of winter by squirrel hunting, revealing their sad desperation by eating varmints that look exactly like skinned rats. Others start bass fishing in sub-freezing temperatures, maintaining lonely vigils on icy waters while knowing in their hearts that it’s a waste of time. Still others furiously repair their neglected homes, performing a ritualistic annual penance in hopes of erasing months of irresponsibility.

You’ll see them this week at Lowe’s (still in camo with their trucks still coated in mud) buying toilet repair kits, gallons of paint, and bags of mulch. For the first time in months, they’re not racing the clock in hopes of watching the sunset from their ladder stand. From a parking lot somewhere in town they’ll just look wistfully toward the West and sigh.

This Saturday they’ll be unarmed, working alongside their wife in a flower bed and feeling like a buck that just shed his antlers. Late in the afternoon, some wood ducks will fly over and the whistling sound of their wings will trigger a yearning deep within. Then, if they’re lucky enough to live in the country, just as the sun dips below the horizon, something magical will happen:

“Honey, did you hear that?” they’ll ask.

“Hear what?” their long-suffering bride replies.

“A gobbler!”

And so it starts all over again.



Craig Ziemba is a military pilot who lives in Meridian.

To have Craig speak at your event, contact him at craigziemba@aol.com.