A/N :: This is based off of a journal I myself have written, and some of the entries are just slightly edited versions of my own. While I usually appreciate constructive criticism, I ask that no remarks about grammar or diction are made for this story. There may or may not be hints of pairings—you might fem!Prussia x Canada, France x fem!England, AusHun, GerIta, and Spain x fem!Romano.
This is the journal of fem!Prussia—or Gillian Beilschmidt as she is known in the story—and takes place in a modern AU setting.
Also note that some entries will be extremely short, for this reason, there may be more than one entry per chapter.
This will be the only author's note I will be writing for this particular story.
Warnings include: strong suicidal themes, eating disorders, self-harm, and strong language.
As usual, the only thing I can take credit for is the way the words are arranged, ergo, I disclaim all characters and the Hetalia series.
This Journal is written for anyone who cares to be read after I'm gone.
After you read it (if you read it) do whatever the hell you want with it.
Wipe your ass with it, burn it, bury it, I don't give a fuck.
Gillian Beilschmidt.
11 APRIL, 2012. 4:06 P.M.
Wow this is really weird.
This journal is a … document of sorts.
HAHA DOCUMENT NO HOW ABOUT NO THAT IS WAY TOO SERIOUS AND OFFICIAL SOUNDING AND DO I LOOK LIKE LUDWIG TO YOU? NO JUST NO
Well, whatever. Let's just get to the point, ja?
You see this is a bit of a journal that I'm leaving behind for all of you—and not just any journal; it's to document my last several days.
Because, hopefully- if I am not a coward, that is (but really, I am a coward, so I suppose you could instead say "if I am brave enough"),- I would be dead by now.
Wow, that was kind of a bombshell, wasn't it? Haha, well, subtlety has never been my strongest trait.
I beg of you, please do not be upset or sad about this. I don't want that. I want you all to rejoice! "She's dead! Hallelujah! No longer will she pester us and ruin our days with her existence!" Something like that. Haha. Please, even if you can't do that, at the very least smile for me.
Do not be sad, for I am glad to go.
I promised myself I wouldn't rant about how shitty my life was, but then, I promised I wouldn't kill myself, too, and look where we are now. Since I, apparently, can't keep a promise, feel free to skip the following section:
I can't breathe—this is an ailment both physical and mental. Physical because I have been problems with my breathing for some time now, a problem the doctors have no explanation for (but only because they are unwilling to really help – "she's faking it," they say "she just wants attention and to get out of school.") I can't fucking breathe and it physically hurts to try. There is a constant pressure in my chest, and every time my heart beats, the ache grows stronger. My inability to breathe is partially mental/emotional/whatever, as well. I am drowning, you see? I am drowning in stress and anger and the tears I've cried and sadness and hatred—from both myself and others. How could anyone possibly ask me to live through all of this? People say "don't do this, it's cruel and selfish what you're doing" but isn't it "cruel and selfish" of you to demand that I fight every second of every day to live when I have no desire to, when I would be happier dead? "You'll regret it" is what I hear often as well, but what is there to regret? If I am dead, I am dead. I will be nothing but a memory, incapable of feeling anything, much less "regret."
As I said much earlier, though, I am a coward. There is a mere fifty percent chance that I will do this to myself. I need to tell you, though, all of you, how I feel—how hard it is for me to live. Every day is a battle, and every battle is just a part of the war that is my life—a war I am losing. The most pitiful part is, I am fighting none other than myself.
I don't know what good telling all of you would do me. I suppose it's nice to get it off my chest. Even if I'm such a coward that I can't do this, well, I don't know. Stress relief, I suppose?
Or, perhaps, this is more a method to ensure that I do do this. Because how ridiculous would it be if, after all the work I'm putting into this journal, I don't off myself?
Oh, how depressing this has gotten! I assure you, this was not my intent. I want this to be as lighthearted as possible.
Remember me not as a depressing person who felt nothing but sadness, but please, remember me as a joyful person who did her best to smile through her pain.
Because I did. Every single day, I smiled. I didn't want you all to know how upset I was.
But every single day, I also cried. You see? It isn't enough just to smile. It really isn't.
You can't just say "smile and be happy!" it doesn't work that way.
Aw hell, it's getting depressing again. Fuck.
Ah well.
This is a bit of an odd request to make here, but can you guys leave all of my belongings in my room? I know I'm going to be gone, but I feel like if there's nothing there, it will be as though I've never even lived …
Which means, no, you can't have any of my shit. Get your own.
So, while I cannot really give any of you anything physical or tangible, I leave behind, instead, my love, for I strongly believe there has rarely been a love so strong as the one I feel for all of you. (LOL I sound like a pansy haha)
Thank you to all of you for being with me all this time and I'm very sorry for everything.
Love, always and forever,
Gillian.
PS – please take good care of Gilbird.
