I spent the next few months hiding from them

In the summer of 2011 I moved to Stowe. I moved into a house with three other guys for the summer, or until I found a place to live. I had already been visiting the doctor, I had had tests performed, answered all the questions I was asked. I first went to the doctor in April and wasn't diagnosed until late August. In between, truly prior to April as well, I wondered, I feared, I hoped in my heart for something okay, something better than I feared. In the meantime I moved out of my grandmother’s house by the airport, and in with friends in Stowe.

I moved into a small room in a house with three guys and I spent the next few months hiding from them.

I went for a run by myself and didn't know what to think. I would go for runs on the bike path and quickly realize that I felt so weak. I would try to sprint as fast as I could but it was so slow, so very slow. I was exhausted afterwards. I was running in slow motion. I had no strength, no ability to push off. My ankles had no strength.

I switched to riding my bike; by myself, always by myself. It was a bit better but my balance was failing.

We’d go out drinking and I couldn't handle it. Never mind going out, I couldn’t handle the pre-gaming. Drinking just makes everything worse: muscles give up, balance fails, it all becomes more obvious. We’d go to the bar and I would stand around just trying to keep my feet under me. When it was my round I'd go to the bar, get pints and try not to spill them on the way back. Usually I spilled some. It’s easy to attribute almost anything to drunkenness.

No one ever asked me what was wrong and I damn well didn't tell anyone. I didn't know myself, how was I to tell anyone? And once I found out, how was I to tell anyone?

One night we were at Rimrock’s, (in the Baggy Knees shopping center!) we all drank quite a bit before going out, of course, and frankly I was a mess. I was doing my thing, standing by a bar table, not dancing. Not enjoying myself at all; sipping a beer because that's what you do.

And I had to get some air. I wasn’t having fun. I went outside and hung out with the smokers. I was chatting with someone (a girl maybe?) and I don't know what happened but someone pushed me, two hands in my chest. I went down like a sack of potatoes, like throwing an inanimate object on the ground.

I got back up and in my drunken state offered nothing as explanation. A girl was laughing at the fall, as if it was an act. I was a stuntman working hard to make it look authentic. It was authentic. I was cut down like a tree.

I hung out for a while longer outside until I got bored and thought “where are my friends?” I decided to go back inside only to find the doorman wouldn't let me. I was too drunk. I've never been too drunk in the line of the bar. Let me rephrase that: I've been too drunk to get into a bar to be served more alcohol. I certainly have been that. No one has ever noticed; no one has ever called me on it or said you look unsafe or anything like that. Because I'm not, or I wasn't, but on this night I was. I could barely stand.

So I milled around outside for a bit longer, walked around the parking lot, thought about taking a cab home, or walking. I'm not sure how it came to happen, but someone offered me a ride. That's the sort of thing that happens in Stowe, people drive. Someone offer me a ride and I took it. I didn't know where they were going but they saw me meandering around the parking lot and offered me a ride so I got in the car. I don't know what kind of car it was. It had four wheels and a motor that drove me home.

The next morning, or day or whenever it was that we talked about the night before, I told them I was drunk, I went outside, and they wouldn’t let me back in. So I got a ride home. Not too out of the ordinary. No one thought anything of it. Weird things happen when you're drunk.