clean » larry stylinson

[00]

clean » larry stylinson

warning: this story will contain talk of depression, anxiety, and though not prominent, mentions of self-harm.

[ please do not read if you find any of these subjects to be triggering ]

note: please understand too that this story is in no way intended to romanticise mental illness of any form. if anything, i hope that it does the opposite ... outlining quite how painful mental illnesses can be and questioning the idea that love is a cure.

the prologue below gives an understanding into what life is like for louis and should hopefully allow you to relate to him better.

prologue:

❝ counting. that's all it ever was, all it ever will be...

a silence so deafening the surrounding world simply whites out. with every passing moment, your chest tightening until the ache is so unbearable you crave for some sort of release. the pain cascades down upon you, weighing heavy against your unsupported shoulders as though to tauntingly serve as a reminder of your failure; your failure to simply avoid the negative thoughts and succumb to the darker side.

when the ghosts who only exist inside of your mind begin to form, when their cries grow louder and louder, they scream out to you; others oblivious to their presence. eventually it all becomes just too much.

so you count.

tapping against the smooth marble of the bathroom sink where you glanced at the mirror a moment too long, firm against the doorframe you blindly stumbled through, each count is to restore something, to save all that you hold dear. for you don't really quite understand it yourself, but you know, you know that if the demons surrounding us all are ignored, bad things will happen. and all of it will be your fault.

and god does it hurt to see yourself fall apart like this. an innocent bystander merely watching on through glass walls as your mind is clouded by the oh so possessive thoughts. there is nothing you can do. there is no cure, not when you brought it upon yourself.

instead, as you realise your mistake just seconds too late, you hang your head in pure shame and cry out in a pain while you tap until your fingers bleed a raw red, counting your way to safety. a twisted game with a predetermined winner

eventually that glimmer of false hope fades away, the most heartbreaking of moments being when you realise there was never really any chance for you. it will always be there, hidden between your deepest and darkest insecurities, lurking in the shadows just waiting for you to screw it up all over again. and honestly, there is no doubt that you will. you always do.

'obsessive compulsive disorder' is the name that the boy, aged only nine at the time, had been told as he clung desperately to his mother's hand. though as he looks back upon it now, as a young man still plagued with the thoughts that stole his chance at a childhood, it seems rather juvenile to simply call it that. there is no way one can simply string together a few words in order to categorise something that can elicit so much fear.

they told him to hold onto the small bundle of hope they believed he had left. an idea, dream or promise he could cling to and let it pull him through.

and until the day that crooked smile stumbled into his life;

he'd never have thought that hope could be a person. ❞