A new day is on the horizon. The storm has passed. I’ve made it through the chaos, and now I’m standing here squinting at the sunrise like some victorious shipwreck survivor. The rollercoaster has screeched to a halt (for now), and I’ve managed to crawl out of the Mariana Trench of exhaustion, pain, and brain fog. Now I’m just treading water, calm and steady, watching the storm clouds drift into the distance. It feels… peaceful. Almost like I could stay here forever.

But here’s the thing: the storm is still visible in the rearview mirror. It’s behind me, but it’s never gone. It may circle back. And honestly? I’m exhausted. Not just “oops-I-forgot-to-sleep-last-night” exhausted, but “I-just-walked-10-kilometers-in-the-desert-and-someone-hand-me-a-water” exhausted. I crave just a few weeks of actual rest. A break. A reset button. Something.

Living with chronic Lyme feels like being forced to join an endurance sport I never signed up for. And while I’d love a medal, I mostly just want a nap. People tell me I’m “so strong,” “so resilient,” or that “I’ll make it through.” Please, just… stop. I know it’s meant kindly, but hearing it sometimes feels like being handed a participation trophy when you’re already limping across the finish line with your shoelaces tied together.

And then there’s the social side: plans I cancel, invitations I decline, the awkward explanations. It stings when others get frustrated and disappointed . That’s when I go quieter. I pull back. I retreat into my little shell like a Lyme-ridden turtle. Because sometimes interacting is harder than the illness itself.

If there’s one thing this disease is oddly efficient at, though, it’s triage. It separates the good people in your life from the ones who just don’t get it. And while that hurts, it’s also strangely clarifying.

So here I am, floating in calm waters after the storm, soaking up this brief peace. Knowing it may not last, but also knowing: I’ve survived another flare. And sometimes, that’s enough.

It’s a new day. I’m sitting at my laptop, pretending to be one of those “normies” who just drink coffee and focus on tasks without spiraling into existential dread. Today, my brain feels strangely composed, almost like it read the manual for “how to human.” Even the rain and chilly wind outside can’t ruin the vibe.

But yesterday? Oh boy. Yesterday was like being stuck on a boat during a storm, waves smacking me around, holding on for dear life, just waiting for calmer waters. Is that storm really over, or am I just chilling in the eye of it, smiling while chaos reloads in the background the next day?

Yesterday-me was… scary. Crying for no reason, panicking, helpless, like the weight of the world had decided to crash down on my shoulders. Yesterday felt like sinking into the Mariana Trench, the lowest, darkest place on earth, with no light, no direction, and only my inner child screaming in the pressure of the deep.

Then the evening came, exhaustion body-slammed me into bed, and today? It’s like nothing happened. Clean slate. Except… not really. Yesterday is still lurking in the corner like an awkward guest at a party, reminding me it could come back.

So for now, I keep going, typing, sipping coffee, playing normie. Secretly hoping that this Lyme flare packed its bags and moved to another dimension, preferably one without Wi-Fi so it can’t find me again.