I haven’t written in a while, mostly because life surprised me with something I hadn’t seen in months: energy. Real, functioning, 100%-battery-kind-of energy. And when you live with chronic Lyme, that’s basically winning the lottery. So for the last four weeks, I’ve been busy enjoying it to the fullest, like a kid who found the hidden candy drawer and refuses to tell anyone.

Now here I am, back in the passenger seat of my monthly pilgrimage to the Lyme specialist, the holy temple of antibiotics, blood tests, and “So… how are we feeling today?”.

And honestly? I really hope this is the last one. I feel good. OK, not “perfectly-oiled-machine” good, more like “the washing machine makes a weird sound sometimes but still works” kind of good. But that’s absolutely fine.

Obviously, my body decided to spice things up with a new symptom (because why not keep the plot interesting?): red, itchy hands in the morning. Cute. Annoying. Manageable. We deal.

But holy hell, the energy. It’s back. In full force.

And I feel invincible.

And it’s absolutely fucking awesome.

It’s strange to think that it’s been a year since I first heard the words chronic Lyme. I remember that moment so clearly, relief because I finally knew why I felt like a malfunctioning 90-year-old trapped in a 40-something body… and fear because I had no idea what came next. So my brain, being the loyal overthinking factory it is, went into full detective mode. Google tabs everywhere. Supplements everywhere. Hope and panic in equal doses.

But somehow, one step at a time, paths unfolded.

And now, one year later, I’m… different.

Wiser. Tougher. More resilient.

My mind and body have been to war together. I’ve learned so much about myself, especially how to say no without feeling guilty. And damn, that felt good. Like unlocking a cheat code in life.

So here I am again, in the car, staring out the window, mentally preparing for the doctor’s office. Except this time, my list of concerns has exactly one item:

“Can I stop antibiotics, please?”

That’s it. No dramatic monologue. No existential crisis. Just a quiet, hopeful question.

And whatever happens next, whether I stop today or in three weeks, I know the direction I’m going. I’ll keep supporting my body, but this time I’ll let the plants take over the battlefield. A softer army. A greener one. One that taste better than tinidazole, for sure.

Here’s to energy returning, to surviving the toughest year of my life, and to hoping this is the beginning of life after treatment, where the only thing I fight is the temptation to say “yes” to everything.

It’s been almost ten days of good days. Like… good good. The kind of days where my brain remembers it has an “articulate” mode and a “focus” button. Where I wake up and don’t feel like a grand piano fell on me overnight. Where the bed doesn’t hold me hostage with the weight of a thousand invisible elephants.

Just normal life things, going to work, functioning in society, and taking the sausage dog on long walks even when the universe is throwing wind, rain, and emotional character development my way. It’s so wonderfully… normal. And holy hell, I missed normal.

Okay, yes, I developed this new fun party trick where my hands turn red and itchy for absolutely no reason. Body, babe, why? But compared to the usual circus of symptoms, that’s basically a spa treatment.

And the energy… oh, it’s back. My body has hit the “low battery power-saving mode off” switch. I’m planning again,  though slowly. Pacing myself like a responsible adult who has clearly learned from the 47 previous times she overdid it. This feels like the last mile. The home stretch. The finish line is maybe no longer imaginary.

My antibiotics? Yeah, they’re tired. My cells are tired. My liver is somewhere in a corner sending hate mail. I can feel that this treatment has done what my specialist could do — for now. In three weeks I’ll walk into that doctor’s office with every finger crossed, secretly hoping to hear those sacred words:

“You can stop now.”

Imagine: a life where my pharmacy stops greeting me by first name. A life where my body isn’t constantly filing noise complaints. A life with no complaints at all,  or at least not medical ones.

But of course…the fear sneaks in. What if I stop and everything comes crashing back like last time? What if the bacteria throw a welcome-back party? What if my body goes, “Surprise! Plot twist!”

Then again… what if I get better?

What if the symptoms now are just the antibiotics trying to make their final dramatic exit?

What if stopping is exactly what I need?

Honestly, I would love a break from meds. A tiny intermission. A moment where my only pills are… I don’t know… vitamins and hope?

For now, I’m here. Enjoying energy like it’s a Black Friday sale.

Doing the things I love.

Walking in the wind with a brave tiny sausage warrior.

Believing,  cautiously, foolishly, defiantly,  that I’m close.

That I’m really almost there.