I ’d like to tell you about a place called 1 Bed Avenue. It’s where I used to live—sometimes for months at a time. Diagnosed with Lyme disease in 2012, I received outstanding care from the specialists I saw. All the same, I didn’t get better.
I lived in Connecticut just miles from the town of Lyme, where the disease was first diagnosed in 1977. Ticks are now ubiquitous in Connecticut and Massachusetts, my stomping grounds for long walks in the woods.
Over the years, Lyme had sucked the marrow out of me and spat me out like an enervated double of my old self. I could no longer endure the Sisyphean battle of waking up feeling depleted, hardly able to struggle through the most basic tasks, only to have to repeat the cycle the next day.
I had read every health study, every health book, every medical journal. I had experimented on my own body as if I were a laboratory animal. I had exhausted every known and unknown treatment. I had no options left to try, except one.
I had heard about Russian physician Sergey Filonov and his dry fasting therapy—refraining from eating or drinking anything, including water—for
