After one more month of Canada's support, America was finally deemed cured of his eating disorder and depression. At least, that was what England and Canada assumed, but that didn't mean they were absolutely correct. Before America was permitted to live on his own again, he had to prove that he was well enough not to harm himself behind any nation's back. Sure, America appreciated the fact that there were nations who were willing to help him out during his crisis, but it was a burden on his dignity and privacy, and he loathed a lack of both. To say the least, their presence was becoming annoying to him. Besides, America once had goals, and all he saw from the help he received was the tedious idea of starting them all over. The American wasn't even sure if he would be able to gain the self discipline required to starve himself after all of the meals he was tricked into eating ever again. It was bitter pill to swallow in America's perspective.
Of course, receiving his privilege to live on his own once more wasn't the simplest task America achieved. What was most challenging was the fact that he had to act as if he was fine in the most reasonably natural way possible, and since he was not anywhere near being the chirpy nation he once was on the inside almost messed him up on so many occasions. America thought that his fake smile and act would fail him, so it came to a great surprise when the barriers of his falsehood actually worked out. It made him wonder, Am I really that good at acting? If they saw through it, they wouldn't have let me off the hook. I know they aren't bad at reading people, but I'm too clumsy to act. Then a realization came to him as he mumbled, "For once, I think I can actually appreciate my luck for not going against me."
America continued to stare into the mirror on his bedroom wall. He felt himself quiver with abhor at what he saw staring back at him. Based on what his mind translated from his own reflection, it claimed that his arms, legs, and stomach were all bloated. His cheekbones were also terribly defined, making his cheeks look puffy, and his eyes tiny and less appealing. Another 'flaw' that really stood out to the American was the fact that his hair was 'greasy' and 'unruly'. He assumed that it was the sweat from all of the fat that his bones and muscles were forced to support. America just wished that the mirror would lie. It became a habit of his, to always blame the mirror for his mind's misrepresentation.
As America continued to gaze into the mirror an image of how his country's supermodels were always so thin appeared in his mind for a brief moment, causing the nation to scowl with envy. Then he thought about his citizen's ever rising obesity rates, and immediately became ashamed. Of course, he was not feeling contrite for his people. Never could he place the blame on something that he considered out of their control, but instead, he placed the blame all on himself. His thoughts became grim, I'm a lousy excuse of a nation, becoming fat. How could've I not seen the consequences this would have on my people? Well, never again. I will lose weight for the sake of my country, starting with ten pounds this month.
For a moment, America stood there and pinched his skin before finally questioning aloud, "Will ten pounds this month be enough? What if I don't enough weight fast enough?"
He continued to stare at his arm as he pinched the skin on his before finally nodding, "It's settled, fifteen pounds before this month ends. It shouldn't be too hard, I mean, there is about twenty day left."
With that said, America prepared himself for the long dash he had planned outside. The idea of eating any breakfast that day went completely ignored as the nation began his personal marathon throughout the city. It was only five in the morning, so he didn't have to worry about too much traffic on the roads or sidewalks. After three solid hours of jogging, America had already emptied his water bottle twice in his attempt to stay hydrated. Beads of sweat littered his face, and dampened his hair to the point of weighing down his cowlick. Still, he proceeded with his jog. All for the sake of weight loss.
About one more hour of non-stop running passed before America finally collapsed on a nearby bench. No one could count his breathing as panting, but instead the nation was hyperventilating from the lack of oxygen. His throat ached from dehydration. No matter how hard America had tried to quench his thirst, the prickly feeling of sand always welcomed itself back. His throat might as well be a parched desert. Worst of all was the light headed feeling that America was being tortured with, and the fact that his vision was becoming so dim didn't help. People gave him worried glances as they walked by, but he was very pleased when none of them made an attempt to bring him to a hospital. He didn't care how terrible his condition was, the hospital would prevent him from losing weight, and he just couldn't allow that.
By the time America gained what he considered a decent amount of strength, he stood up from the bench, and began to walk back to his house. His house was quite a distance from where he currently was as well, at the very least it was five miles. Of course, that was not a problem for the persistent nation, the more mileage the better. Even though his vision was still rather dark from the heat and dehydration, the American still continued to push on. Even when his legs screamed with protest and wanted to shut down, he still pushed on. Even when his lungs wanted to shrivel up with from their deprived state to end the suffering they were forced to endure, he still pushed on. His mind no longer sympathized the body it lived in, but instead made it a mandatory to undergo any harsh procedure or workout that would result in a huge loss of fat.
Even though the American had been walking to his house, he still managed to arrive there in less than two hours. As much as his legs wanted to relax, America still forced them to travel at a rather swift speed. He was almost jogging the entire time he walked to his house. The first thing the exhausted nation did when he entered his house was black out on the couch. He wasn't even aware of the fact that he was resting. His body could no longer support what his mind's desires, it just needed a break.
America remained unconscious for nearly a day before he finally awoke the next morning. It wasn't a pleasant awakening, but instead welcomed the groggy nation with an excruciating headache. America groaned, and held back a sob as his brain continued to send its nerves screaming. It was almost as if his brain was trying to tell him that someone had just split his head in half. Of course, America knew that this was not the case, and definitely yearned for the organ to stop 'overreacting'. At that moment, he just wanted someone cradle his head, and even if it wouldn't rid him of the horrendous pain, it'd still somewhat distract him. Weak, America found himself responding to his desire, I shouldn't need anyone else to help me cope with my pain. Everyone else seems to be independent during these situations, so the fact that I want someone to make me feel better only proves that I'm weak.
Suddenly, nausea gripped America's stomach, causing him to gag loudly. Immediately, he slid off the couch and dashed to the bathroom, ignoring the stabbing pain in his head from the sudden movement. As soon as he reached the bathroom, vomit erupted from his mouth. Some of it hitting the floor, but the nation managed to prevent too much of the vial content from making a mess of his bathroom. By the time America had unwillingly emptied his stomach into the toilet, a sudden wave of exhaustion hit, causing him to stumble backwards before he could even think about cleaning up his mess. Once again, the nation lost consciousness, and this time ended up lying on the frigid hard ground of his bathroom.
Slowly, America opened his eyes as he began to stir. The headache that was still present was not nearly as torturous, and some of his energy was finally beginning to return. America began to shiver and curl up as an unwelcoming chill made its way across his body. The nation continued to lay on the floor until a pungent miasma snapped him out of his dizzy day dreams. He sat up to look for what could've caused such a reek in the room he was in, and when he found a few puddles of drying vomit, he cringed, Oh gross! Where did all this barf come from? The the fuzzy memories finally came back to him, and he sighed, "Come on, it was only a simple jog. There's no excuse for my body to react in such a way."
America stood up on shaky legs, and began to clean up his bathroom floor. After all, he didn't want the vomit to grow stale, or worse yet, rot. Once he had finished bleaching the floor, America gripped his stomach as a hunger pang decided to announce its existence. Hissing with annoyance, the nation tried his very best to ignore his complaining stomach, but it proved futile. Eventually, America gave into his stomach's desires, and set off to his kitchen to find something to eat. He decided to settle on a bowl that was half way full of dry cereal. Reluctance and guilt had tried prevent him from eating the cereal, but the hunger had become so unbearable that he ended up mindlessly scarfing down every last crumb of his meal.
The half bowl of cereal was not enough for America, eventually he began to eat his food straight from the bag. No longer caring for decency, nor discipline. He was starving, that's all there was to it. Eventually, America managed to stop his binge episode from becoming too uncontrollable when he saw that there was now a portion of the cereal gone from the bag. Shaking his head, he questioned aloud, "Oh Arthur, why did you have to make me reliant on food again?"
Then he sighed, "He'll never understand what it's like to struggle with weight. He can already eat whatever he wants without gaining a pound. Why he thinks the same would apply for me, I'll never know. Maybe one day he'll understand that I don't need to eat, I just need to be thin."
Soon, America began to feel tired once more, but he didn't want to go to fall asleep until he was clean. He did feel very grubby at the moment, and found it embarrassing. After taking a long, warm shower, America finally curled up underneath the blankets of his bed. Before sleep finally overcame the nation, a faint voice hissed from the back of his mind, weak.