Some Are Sicker Than Others Read Online Free PDF Page B

my boots, buttoned up my jacket, threw on my helmet, and hopped on my bike. Now, I know what you all are thinking. What about the snow? What about the blizzard? What if I slip and crack my head on the ice? Well, that was a risk I was willing to take. You see, I was so deluded that getting to that library became my only saving grace. I thought that if I could just get on my bike and make it out to Boulder, I’d prove to everyone that I was going to be okay. Even if I died along the way, I’d at least be a hero, and everyone would remember me as a martyred saint. But, here’s the sick thing—before I went I had to make sure I packed enough provisions to keep me warm for the long trip. So, I took one of those Camelbaks—those little satchels that professional cyclists fill up with water—and I filled it up with an entire box of Franzia wine. I know, I know, pretty sick, right? Well, that’s how fucked up I was. I figured all I needed was a little bit of Franzia to ward off the pesky symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. I mean, I couldn’t very well risk hallucinating in the middle of the freeway and going into convulsions on the side of the road. I mean, that would be crazy. That would be absolutely absurd. I couldn’t risk dying, I was about to come up with the addiction cure!”
    “So, I took my Camelbak, slung it over my shoulder, hopped on my bike, and headed off down the road. I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but somewhere between my apartment and downtown Denver, I must’ve slipped on the ice, hit my head, and lost consciousness and ended up passed out somewhere in about a foot of snow. The next thing I knew, I was being wheeled through the Denver county hospital, connected to a bunch of machines and those long, spaghetti-like, plastic tubes. And I was a mess too. My face was frozen, my lips were purple, and my fingertips were so frostbitten, they looked like pieces of black liquorice. When the doctor came in, he said they might have to amputate if the color in my fingers didn’t come back soon. But I wasn’t really too concerned about that. I didn’t really care if they had to cut off all my fingers and leave me with nothing but two nubs for hands. As sick as it sounds, the only thing that I really cared about was getting the hell out of there and back to my apartment so I could polish off my box of Franzia wine. That’s how sick I was. That’s how fucked up I had become. I didn’t give a shit about losing my fingers. I didn’t even care if I died right then and there. Anything was better than the pain I was experiencing. Anything was better than the alcohol withdrawal. My head was on fire, my body was thawing, and I was shaking and heaving so much that I was willing to do anything for just one sip of alcohol. So, I did what I had to do. I got out of the bed, ripped out all of that tubing then marched out of the room and into the hall. Well, I didn’t even make it three steps before a nurse saw me and started shouting, chasing after me like a wild boar down the hall. Two seconds later, a stampede of security guards jumped on top of me and dragged me back to my bed, kicking and screaming, while nurses with latex gloves and giant sized needles strapped restraints to my wrists and ankles to hold me down. And they basically left me like that—strapped to a bed, sweating and seizing, staring up at a fucking wet spot on the wall. I pulled against those straps until my wrists became bloody and cried out constantly for someone to come let me out. But, no one ever came. I was stuck there, alone in the dark with my hallucinations, seeing things move that weren’t moving, watching things crawl around the corners of the ceiling. The feeling that at any moment, someone could come into that room and do whatever the hell they wanted to me and I wouldn’t be able to do a god damn thing, was without a doubt, the most terrifying experience of my entire life. To have your freedom and your liberty taken away