Some people get hangovers from tequila. Mine come from killing bacteria.

It’s the day after a Herx reaction.

At this point in my Lyme treatment journey, I could practically write The Idiot’s Guide to Herxing, I’ve had so many since February that I know the drill better than my own Netflix algorithm.

Still, every time, this disease finds a new way to surprise me,  a fresh little plot twist in the “How Much Can a Human Take” series. Somehow, it always manages to pull a new trick, a fresh symptom, or a slightly different flavor of chaos, just to remind me who’s boss.

And yet, every time it does, I learn a bit more about my own resilience.

Physically, my body’s doing its best. Despite the antibiotic cocktail shaking things up inside, it’s hanging in there like a champ. I’m giving it the care it needs to stay in the fight, because beating this thing isn’t just medical,  it’s personal.

And that’s why I remind myself: there’s nothing I cannot do. Before this, I could move mountains to achieve my goals,  and that fire is still burning, just steadier now. My spirit hasn’t lost its fight; it’s only learned strategy. The force is still there, quieter maybe, but wiser,  pacing itself, breathing through the storms, refusing to burn out before the finish line.

Yesterday, though, the Herx hit hard. For the uninitiated, a Herxheimer reaction is like your body’s way of doing spring cleaning: the bacteria die, your immune system sweeps through, and everything gets stirred up. It can feel messy for a day or two, but it means progress,  your body is getting back on track. Basically, all your worst symptoms decide to throw a reunion party in your body,  uninvited. You’re chained to the bed (or couch, if you’re fancy), while your spirit flaps uselessly around the ceiling screaming, “I had plans!”. It’s like being in a mental hospital run by bacteria.

So yes, I was supposed to have a productive week. There was a team lunch on the calendar, some neat tasks to tick off,  but instead, I got front-row tickets to a 24-hour coma on my couch. Even my sausagedog had to skip his usual afternoon cardio session (aka the reluctant walk).

Today, the shackles are off. My muscles still ache, my body still whispers complaints,  but I’m determined to rejoin the living. I’ll start small: a decent breakfast, a quick garden pit stop for my dog’s royal morning pee, and maybe let the rain remind me I’m still alive.

If all goes well, by tomorrow it’ll be like it never happened.

Just another page in the saga of Me vs. Lyme: The Unwanted Trilogy.