I Hate You (Larry Stylinson) ✅

35. inner strength

Louis' POV.

July 9

"Lou, it's time for the meditation class," Harry says, taking a seat next to me on the grass. He puts a hand on the small of my back and kisses my cheek softly. The tree behind me sways in the wind, messing up my hair a little and Harry smooths it back.

"Okay, okay. One more minute, Haz," I say, not looking up from my typing as he caresses me.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, and I try my best to get every last thought jotted down before I forget.

I haven't had this much fluidity in my writing in months, if not years. Never has my mind been so clear, my writing so precise, the process so effortless. Instead of spending hours staring at the page, all I have to do is start typing and my ideas begin to flow. Rather than feeling trapped and bogged down by negative thoughts like I usually do, I suddenly feel positive and reinvigorated.

Honestly, when Niall said this retreat would be good for me, I had no idea he would actually be right. I expected this trip to consist of me dragging myself through endless activities and forcing myself to smile and trying to reserve enough emotional energy to make Harry think I'm actually happy. I thought it would consist of meals that I'd have to physically shove down my throat, workshops I'd have to pretend I enjoyed and got something out of.

But it didn't turn out that way. Not at all.

Because something changed.

It all started at dinner on the first day. After arriving, Harry and I put our things in the cabin — a rustic cedarwood with six bedrooms — and then headed outside for dinner. The coordinators were only serving burgers and hot dogs, and I stared at the grill, wanting to cry, just wishing they were at least going to make grilled chicken or something semi healthy.

"Okay, after this we are going to do a night time writing exercise!" The head coordinator said.

I bit my lip, thinking of the burning feeling in the pit of my stomach. I haven't eaten anything but a salad and a protein bar during the road trip, and that was hours ago.

Harry smiled at me encouragingly as we got on line for food. He hasn't been pushing me or monitoring my food much lately, because when he does, I lash out and refuse to eat. But when he doesn't, I don't end up eating much anyways either. It's a lose-lose.

I took a breath, trying to steady my shaking hands. The voice was screaming at me to get out of there, to find any excuse to skip out on this greasy food. But the coordinator kept talking about the writing workshop and I kept thinking about how I wasn't going to be able to do it.

Fuck, I wasn't going to be able do it if I didn't eat. I was going to be shaky, exhausted, drained. Unable to focus on anything but my hunger and my fatigue and how guilty I was for feeling hungry and tired in the first place...

And as I moved up on the line, right then and there it hit me. My writer's block wasn't writer's block. I wasn't stuck or out of ideas: I just wasn't able to focus because I wasn't eating enough. My entire mind was consumed by food. Food and calories and exercise and restriction. There wasn't room for anything else, there wasn't room for my writing - or even for me.

Harry handed me a plate, and instead of rushing to the bathroom as I had originally planned, I stepped up to the grill and take both a hamburger and a hot dog.

I nearly surprised myself when I sat down at the picnic table and began to eat the meal. All of it, every last bite. I was just so tired of feeling hungry, so tired of not being able to think straight. Tired of running until I felt sick, of forcing myself to work out for hours. I was tired, and I just wanted it to stop. Just for this week.