The funny thing about this story is that apparently the military has a high rate of eating disorders. I guessit's not really that funny but I found out while looking up ifprevious eating disorders disqualify you. I've been thinking about it a good bit.

America had, for some time, been losing weight. He had been trying to at first until he'd finally told himself to knock it off, but the problem had persisted. America had lost seven pounds in the past three months, and finally he had decided to attempt to get fit again— but now he had a BMI of 16.7 and he couldn't do many push-ups anymore. All of America's closest human friends had been in the military and he'd been at his strongest there, so it was only natural that he would judge his level of fitness off military standards. It was only natural that America would be upset that he could no longer do any pull-ups or more than ten push-ups at a time, much less anything required to pass the Air Force PFT.

As a result of all of this, America found himself sitting alone, eating a grilled cheese sandwich before the world meeting. He had brought a side of baked chips and a tangerine and a brownie and a small carton of milk, and had arranged everything nicely on a plate to make it more appealing. America was a bit peeved by the amount of food he'd brought, but it was a regular enough amount and he needed to eat so he could do push-ups and run miles again. America would eat it, even if it probably added up to around six hundred calories in the end.

America focused on his food so much that he didn't notice when England entered the world meeting hall. England sat next to him and asked, "Who made you food?"

"I made this," America told him. America faintly remembered struggling to eat when England had first found him, and England praising him for eating. Just for the hell of it, America told himself he was a very good boy for eating. It didn't help.

"And you put it on a plate?" England asked.

"England," America said. He hummed as he finished his sandwich and moved onto the chips. He thought to himself, It is good that I am eating. This is a good behavior. But really he didn't know if it was a good behavior, and he didn't know if he was doing himself any favors by keeping 'good' and 'bad' in his vocabulary.

"What?"

"I'm trying to eat."

England pulled out his phone and stopped talking for a while, but eventually he took up staring at America.

"What?" America asked him again, putting down his carton of milk.

"Are you alright? You're acting a bit different today."

"I'm fine," America said. "I'm just trying to eat. And the more you talk about it, the more I can't do it."

"Huh," England said. "Why not?"

"England."

"Sorry." England paused for a moment, looked away, and then asked, "This isn't because of us, is it?"

"No." America was finding it harder to eat now. "Look, England, I really don't care what you or anyone else said. I'm really trying to be healthy and… I'm just trying to be healthy. Please be quiet."

England nodded and went back to his phone. America finished his food and said, "Maybe I have been a bit off. I've just been so tired."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," America said, pausing before continuing, "I just… I'm just tired. I need to gain weight. I need to eat more."

"Why? How much do you weigh?"

"113."

England paused for a moment, thought that over, and for once he did not criticize America's unit of measurement. He said, "Wow, America, that's… that's very light. I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, it's whatever." America rubbed his eyes. "I'm tired and I don't want to do this, but I'm trying to practice mindfulness and healthy habits or whatever. So I need to concentrate."

England stayed quiet after that.

…

America's level of fitness fluctuated wildly every day, most notably with running. Some days he could run fairly quickly— still at eleven minutes a mile, still much less than he was supposed to, but good enough for him— and other days he could only run a mile after multiple breaks. He took a glance over his fitness log, which had looked good.

February 13: A mile in 11:26, then push-ups, then pull-ups.

February 14: A mile in 11:10, then push-ups, then pull-ups.

But then there was the next day, which went as follows:

February 15: A mile in 11:25 technically, but probably more like seventeen minutes. Two sets of pull-downs, thirty push-ups split into uneven breaks. Couldn't complete the other sets of pull-downs.

And today, on February 16, America had ran a mile in around 12:25 with a break near the end, had to split the push-ups, and had thankfully done all of the pull-downs.

While America has a leg routine, he doesn't often do it because he's constantly exhausted— and anyway, he's going off the standards of the US military, and they don't care about squats or jump-lunges or weights too much. America doesn't care about anything except military standards anymore, not really, so he has nothing else to fall back on. He's left with his entirely weak body and his pathetic times, and he doesn't even know exactly how weak he was, and the worst thing of all us that it's all his fault. He had done this to himself. America's military friends would have ragged him if they weren't dead.

America doesn't know what to do about his run times. America doesn't know what to do about anything anymore.

…

America makes it to ten minutes one day, and he is very proud of himself. Though he is still a long way off from a decent mile time, or even running the 1.5 miles at all, America feels good today. He lays on his basement floor after doing his push-ups and pull-downs, and he feels better. Surely his military friends would still have made fun of him, but America thinks they'd be proud, too. He's been eating more lately, and being fit by military standards almost seems like a reality. America does not feel quite so far from all his old friends as usual.

America wonders to himself, then, about the weight requirements. He has not found a website that tells the minimum, and he is sure that the requirements have changed since the last time he's been in the military. So he looks it up, and sure enough, he's right. The military has a minimum weight requirement, and he doesn't meet it.

America had never noticed they'd had a minimum weight requirement. He supposed he must've met it before, but now it's 128. He had weighed in at 117 this morning, and admittedly getting to that point hadn't been very fun— weighing himself and finding he'd gained four pounds hadn't been fun, running hadn't been fun, eating and trying not to think hadn't been fun. America can't imagine the hardships of reaching 128. He's already been trying so hard— it's hard enough to weigh himself, even if he has to know, and it's harder still to gain weight without counting calories.

It is not the drive to join the military that upsets America. America hasn't had the greatest time in the military; as a nation, he is almost always doing dangerous shit, the shit nobody else wants to do, the shit everybody imagines when they think of the military. America doesn't even want to join the military. He doesn't want to fight.

No, it is not the drive to join the military that upsets America— it is all the more surprising, then, that he's crying. It is just that at some point he must have met the weight requirement, and so did all his friends, and he doesn't meet the weight requirement anymore. America has taken a very different path from all his military buddies. America clearly is not suited for civilian life— just look at the mess he's made of himself, of his body— but he has lived where they have died. There is nobody left to remember when he'd been better. There is nobody left at all.

America goes back upstairs and searches his pantry and refrigerator for something to eat, but he cannot help thinking of all of the food as bad. Finally he settles on an egg, just one; it was the only food that felt okay right before he decided to get better, and it is the only food that feels okay now. He sits at his dinner table and eats the egg, and during it he cannot help thinking that it seems so unreal that he should be unable to join the military without some sort of intervention. He finds himself tired, demotivated— how exhausted he is now. How alone his sickness has made him.

A review would be 10/10 hella peng. Have a great day and stay safe.