My Open Letter to Lyme Disease

Dear Lyme disease, I'm not angry. But I admit you made me miserable. You sneakily rushed through my veins. Anonymous, without a name, you tortured me for months. I didn't know who you were or where you came from. I would stare bleakly out my freshman dorm window, my eyes dull and my head throbbing. I blamed my school. During my first quarter at Northwestern University, my boyfriend and I broke up, my grandfather died, and I couldn't get out of bed for my morning classes. I reluctantly dropped a course after meeting with an adviser who thought I was struggling to acclimate to college. I was 850 miles from home and started to believe that I never should have left the East Coast. But Northwestern was the pennant on my corkboard at home; it was the sweatshirt my dad wore proudly to our local gym. Northwestern was in the cursive letters I signed on thank-you notes I wrote to teachers who helped me apply to college. Northwestern was the school I had dreamed of attending for years. I didn't know what I wanted as those awful days passed. I was disappointed and then scared; I believed I had worked so hard for so long, only for it to amount to the wrong decision. I started to pen essays for transfer applications. But you, Lyme disease, were the culprit. You knew me for much longer than I knew you. You whispered into that black-legged tick's ear to bite me and let the infection begin two summers ago. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, last year you were...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news