Countryhumans Oneshots :D

Depressed!Canada (Pt. 1)

[A/N: I really shouldn't post self-imposed deadlines on the internet. Sorry I'm so effing slow lol. And here I go again, playing with my writing style smh.  

IMPORTANT: This chapter and the following include mentions of: depression, self harm, and suicide. There is major character death. While none of the writing is graphic, these topics could be triggers and I advise readers to click away if they may be affected.] 

I.

When the first symptoms occurred, no one noticed — not even Canada himself. Yeah, he began feeling unrealistically tired, but that wasn't unheard of. He was a busy country after all, with alliances and agreements to maintain, meetings to organise, and mistakes to clean up (mostly America's, if Canada's being honest). He simply brushed off the fatigue and decided that more sleep was the answer: Canada set an earlier bedtime and a later morning routine. So what if, despite this, he remained exhausted? One can never get enough sleep, and that goes for every country. Maybe he just needs to toughen up, like America keeps suggesting. He'll be fine.

II.

The next symptoms were entirely concealed from the rest of the countries, kept under tight wraps with an overdose of Canadian manners and iron will. Canada was, but nature, a polite person and a people pleaser. There's no way he'd let it slip that America's touchiness and loud voice were beginning to annoy him. Or that England was too pushy and uptight, holding all these realistic standards and offering no pathways to success. Canada especially wasn't going to snap at France and tell him just how annoying that Parisian accent was. In fact, Canada wasn't even going to write his feelings and complaints down. What if someone found the papers? Not to mention the fact that writing things down makes them real. As long as his issues went by relatively undefined, he could ignore them. That is, up until the point when everything swells into this irrepressible crest of despair and he breaks down sobbing.

III.

His closet was his favourite place for the increasingly frequent breakdowns. A majority of Canada's clothes were neatly placed in an armoire opposite his bed, so the only things in the actual closet were spare sheets, suits, and a few heavy winter coats. This gave the northern country just enough space to curl up with his back and legs braced against the walls, door closed with heavy fabric weighing him down. It felt like a hug. A form of reassurance and comfort. Hugging, Canada thought, was the best part. He loved hugs, and these swaths of fabric didn't judge his tears. They didn't try to minimise his pain, his problems. They just surrounded him in the dark of a closet as he cried for endless hours.

IV.

Then came that time. There's always the time, that little trick of false healing. Canada, on the verge of calling America and confessing that something's wrong, begins to feel better. Better, not well, but it was enough to convince the country that he was over-reacting. All the symptoms he had experienced ... surely they were just a normal part of everyday stress. Besides, Canada thought resolutely, I can't possibly be depressed. That would just end up stressing out my family (if I ever told them). And what if I had told them, only to start getting better like I am now? They'd just seem me as an attention-seeker, and I can't be that rude. At least I'm getting better now. I'll just move on with my life ...

V.

When everything came back, it did so in a slow, creeping manner. Unlike the first time, Canada didn't have a fresh memory of his cheerful, normal self: he didn't have a point of reference to measure his downward descent. Canada would notice, offhandedly, that he felt a little worse than the few days before. Then after a while, he'd forget. The depression (because as unwilling as the northern country was to name it, that's what it was) didn't play hide and seek with him, it wasn't sentient. Canada just had a natural tendency to focus on others as opposed to himself. Even if his mental state was deplorable, he could still gather up enough goodwill to last through America's 4th of July celebrations. Canada didn't really notice how far he had slipped, with the symptom of irritability fading away.

VI.

Canada's syrup store — stocked up that March — lay largely untouched. He ate two bottles before he started losing appetite, and gave one to Britain during a springtime visit. The rest sat in the cellar, languishing in gathered dust that muted the vibrant amber liquid. Canada used to dust the pristine glass obsessively. Now, the bottles fade into a solemn grey, often entirely forgotten by the willowy country.

VII.

Everything came crashing down at once. It was as if someone had been waiting ... waiting waiting, waiting, until Canada was fully enveloped. Then they gave the go-ahead and every symptom was triggered, set to high, swamping and immuring him in a viscous soup of negative everything.

First and foremost was the utter lack of motivation. Canada became the epitome of 'lackadaisical'. So what if he was the breadbasket of the world? So what if he should pay more attention to America's ... interesting foreign interactions. Was Brexit still even an issue? (Yes.) Did he care? (No.) Nothing could shock him out of it.

The second was his sudden dislike of people. They were so needy and grating and annoying. He didn't owe them any favours, and they rub his nerves raw with every menial interaction — so why socialise? Canada was fed up with the perpetual pattern of ignore-him-till-you-need-him. And the arguing — good God the arguments during meetings made him want to bash his head against a wall! Why can't they all just shut up? Or get along? Or do actual work? It isn't that fucking hard to act civil. Or to not have meetings. Or to just crawl in a hole and die. Why don't they all just disappear??

VIII.

Canada wanted to scream. He has before: a raw, mournful and powerful noise. Or a raging, guttural cry. But now, every time he broke down in his forests, cold wind biting at his face ... it was like draining the ocean with a pipette. He was useless. Screaming was useless. The whole world was useless. Why can't it all just go away?