we'll live to tell the tale (l.s.)

time thickened in his veins

tw// trauma , mentions of past abuse , eating disorder thoughts , depression 

i feel like this chapter is kind of bad and disjointed. took some oxycontin and i feel realllyyyy good like holy fucking shit so hopefully i get some words out for next chapter. god i'm so depressed hahahaahahha. okay but don't do what i do because it's bad and reckless. dm me if you need anything

hope you enjoy! i'm sorry if this is bad. i really wanted to write about art and pretty things and new york. i'm trying to figure out where i'm going with this. prob won't wrap up thaat soon but it's over 2/3 of the way there, i'll tell you that. thank you guys so so so so much for the comments. 

thank you diaryofashydreamer for the nice comments!

twitter: @louflymehome

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somehow, louis was convinced to go see a psychiatrist.

he didn't know how it happened; it just did, so quickly and casually, that if he hadn't been listening so closely, he wouldn't have caught that the boy agreed to it.

harry wasn't sure whether louis' acceptance of the idea had been sheer nonchalance that would be followed by a thick layer a regret, or if he really did have some sort of conscience eating at him, telling him that recovery is worth it. he hoped it was the latter.

but regardless of whatever greater force had driven the boy to this decision, he was grateful.

louis, of course, refused to truly uncoil his feelings in front of a stranger, though, so the best harry could hope for was a miracle prescription—one that would make breathing a bit easier for louis, like the ones he had been given in his early teenage years, when anne's hunch had been correct about there being another force motivating his shortness of breath that was completely unrelated to his asthma.

the appointment was much more brief and much less personal than the two boys had expected. harry, of course, had accompanied the ocean boy as he had with everything else in their lives—ever since they had gotten close just less than six months ago, they'd practically been joined at the hip.

50 mg prozac.

it was fucked up, because there were so many better ways to die, but as soon as was told the name of the drug, louis had googled how much it would take for it to be a lethal dose. it was far too much and far too ineffective.

curse medical breakthroughs, he thought, curse them for making SSRIs so safe.

the second thing he googled was if there was any link between prozac and weight gain. of course, he had been eating more now under harry's constant supervision, but he had, in the end, still a great amount of control over what he'd ingested. and he wasn't about to allow a pill to ruin all that.

despite saying what he had before, he'd always thought that the dreariness of life on antidepressants were exaggerated, or even something in just movies.

they weren't.

a pregnant week of monotony and drowsiness had come and gone before he started noticing even the slightest difference in his mood. it could be called nothing but that, though; a difference. not a positive or negative one, at least not how he saw it.

what was better in this case? feeling so much pain at once that it'd constrict his ribs and lungs so that even choking wasn't an option, or being in this constant state of burnout despite not having done anything at all? which feeling would he consider more poignant?

he'd wondered if this is what depression was supposed to feel like; if he'd been faking it all this time, and was now experiencing the repercussions of lying to so many people. to everyone from his first hospital visit, to dr. reid, to his new psychiatrist whose name he could never remember, to harry. he'd wondered if all of his past experiences, his pain, his fear, had not actually belonged to him like he'd thought it had, and in actuality was just something he'd projected onto himself. he'd wondered, if trying was the right play, after all.