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Chapter 5: Pen and Paper

Norway sat in his chair beside his bed. He flipped through the red journal in his hands. He needed reminders, as he so often did. He needed strength.

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My therapist gave me this journal. She wants me to write down how I feel … typical. I don't think I have a problem. I don't understand what Danmark is so worried about. I lost control … but I was in control, too. How does that even make sense?

The doctors are making me take antidepressants again. I hate them. The pills, mostly, but also the doctors. They don't know who they're dealing with. They think I'm human. If they knew just who I was, they'd have no say in my actions. Unfortunately, Danmark is on their side. He makes sure I write in this journal – "because you refuse to open up to me," he says – and watches my actions three times as much as before.

I tried to dump the antidepressants, but Danmark caught me. He yelled at me, then broke down crying. He wouldn't let go of me for at least an hour. He doesn't trust me, not that I expect him to. It still hurts to see the betrayal and caution in his eyes, though. I tried to explain why – the reason for everything, why I think this way – but he doesn't want to hear it. And I don't want to hear what he has to say, either. I'm not sick. I'd know if I was.

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Norway skipped a few entries. He winced at what he landed on, memories of throwing fits coming to the forefront of his mind.

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I'm so angry right now. And lately, as well, I suppose. I'm angry at the doctors for the antidepressants and trying to send me somewhere for "people like me." I'm angry at my therapist for pretending to care and screwing with my head. I'm angry at Danmark for making me eat, making me take the pills, making me write in this stupid journal.

I'm angry at myself. Why can't I be good enough? Why can't I reach perfection? Why can't I make any sense of my thoughts – how can I be fat and skinny at the same time? How can I think so poorly of myself when I'm the freaking Kingdom of Norge – former Viking nation? How could I have let myself down?

Why can't I get these thoughts out of my head? Maybe Danmark is right. Maybe there is something wrong with me.

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The one he read next nearly brought him to tears. Nearly.

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I tried to throw up after lunch today. I couldn't do it. I was too disgusted with myself. I felt horrified, both at the act and at my thought process. How had I ever done this? Why did I only now realize how wrong it was?

Danmark found me kneeling beside the toilet seat and crying. I told him I couldn't do it. He didn't say anything, just hugged me. I must have looked a sight. Since when do I cry in front of anyone? Since when do I allow myself to be comforted?

When did I decide that I had to starve to be perfect? Since when did I live for others instead of myself?

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Norway flipped past another several pages of the book. He grinned at one particular entry.

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Danmark took me out for dinner yesterday. As in, we went on a date. He helped me eat my food. He encouraged me when I thought I couldn't handle it. He held my hand while I fought the urge to purge. Afterwards, he walked me to be bedroom and stayed with me until I fell asleep. He kissed me good morning.

He told me to get better. He told me I was already perfect. I'm starting to believe him.

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Near the end of the journal, Norway read an entry that made him look over at the photo of his brother. The younger nation had helped more than he'd ever know.

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I'm gaining weight. Danmark has been showing me how to eat healthy – but indulge on sweets sometimes – and to exercise – but not overly so. I never would have thought he'd be the one to help me.

Ísland visited me earlier this week. He brought me licorice – which I couldn't bear to eat – and a card. I read it after he left, knowing he would never tell me his feelings to my face. The card read, "Please get better, big brother."

I forced myself to eat three pieces of licorice. I will make him proud to be my brother.

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He smiled in pride at the last entry of the journal.

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I'm finally at a healthy weight. I've kept my weight for the past week. I'm eating right. Whenever I feel like I can't eat, or like I might throw up, Danmark is always there.

Danmark told me that if I ever felt that low about myself again, that I had to talk to him. He told me that I'm perfect the way I am, and that I can always tell him what I'm thinking – that he won't laugh.

And I believe him. I owe him my life. Believing his word is the least I can do.

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Norway put the journal away. He looked over at the half-awake Denmark.

"What're you doing?" Denmark asked sleepily.

Norway crawled into the bed. "Nothing." He cuddled up against Denmark, who pulled him close and kissed his temple.

"I love you," Denmark murmured.

Norway not-quite-grinned. "I know," he said softly.

Denmark held his hand. "You're perfect."

Norway looked over at Denmark. He gave a soft kiss to the taller blond. "I know."