I Hate You (Larry Stylinson) ✅

25. self destruction

Trigger warning: very very severe eating disorder behaviors and self harm. very triggering

April 1

Louis' POV

My heart is beating out of my chest and it hurts to breathe. With trembling hands, I open the door to my room and allow the nurse to step in.

"Step on the scale, eyes closed," she says.

I do as told without a hitch, allowing my feet to touch the cold metal apparatus.

When she tells me to open my eyes and step off , I think it's over. I start to breathe again, I feel the tension exit my shoulders and a small smile creeps across my lips.

But it's not over. The nurse instructs me to sit down and begins to take my blood pressure and vitals. How could I fucking forget that part?

Instantly, I start panicking as she wraps the sleeve around my arm. After a few seconds, it slowly tightens and the machine beeps a few times.

"That's weird," the nurse says, frowning. "You have no blood pressure. Let me try again."

She tries it again. Still zero.

"Must be something wrong with the machine, let me take it manually," she says, taking out a manual cuff.

Still nothing. I hold my breath, trying not to cry.

"Are you nervous or something? That's odd. Get dressed."

I nod, and as soon as she leaves the room, I rip off the gown like my life depends on it. Beneath it, I've been wearing a wrestling singlet (sort of like a leotard) in which I've shoved two plated weights. Ten pounds each.

I shove the weights into my backpack and put on my clothes, wheezing as I do it.

I'm so dizzy I can hardly see what I'm doing. But when the nurse comes back in, I'm sitting on the counter, completely calm. Completely normal.

"We're so pleased with your progress in such a short time, Louis," the nutritionist says shortly afterwards when she comes in. "Dr. Smith and I think you're ready to end the program."

Yes. Fucking yes. 

She goes through a final meal plan with me before I leave, and the doctor comes in just to check my numbers. "Everything looks good," she says.

And that's it. I'm done forever. I did it.

Or at least I did what I had to do. I'm not really recovered. I'm not really ready to leave outpatient. In fact, I'm far from it. I just tricked the bloody scales, for god's sakes. And I've been tricking them for weeks, leading the doctors along to think I was making progress.

Part of me feels absolutely, disgustingly guilty for what I've done. But I mostly feel relieved. I tried so hard to recover, I truly did. But after weeks of those stupid meal plans and the extreme hunger and the bloating and the daily mental torment, I couldn't take it anymore. I just couldn't take it.

When I found the singlet and the weights while cleaning out my brother's storage unit last month, I got the perfect plan. A plan that would make everyone get off my back - a plan that would give me my freedom back, WITHOUT gaining weight.

And so now I've done it. Now I've gotten medically cleared, despite doing nothing but losing weight. Despite only getting sicker. I know I'm fucked up. I know it's bad. I know I have lost control of myself, and have given in to my eating disorder.

But it felt like there was no other way out - the pain was unbearable. The voice was too loud, and I had to do something to make it stop. I had to give it what it wanted.