Anxiety is a Bitch // TOMMYINNIT

>you deserve this<

Anxiety is a bitch.

And as Tommyinnit laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping because everytime he closed his eyes he was just filled with the loud chaotic screaming of his inner conscious, the combined noise sounding like the constant thudding of a train passing over tracks, the headlights blinding him in the foggy rain as he stood in the railway, the steel beast just moments from running him over and splaying his dismembered body across the nearby dirt only for his body to be decayed and picked at by wild animals, never to be rescued by any family members or loved ones, he realized that he had never thought a more true thought.

And that's why he kept his eyes open.

Along with other things, of course. But mostly it was just the nagging in his head. The bad thoughts, as he came to call them.

"Hey Wilbur, can we talk? I'm having bad thoughts."

"Mom? Can I skip school today and spend time with you? To stop thinking about the bad thoughts."

"Tubbo... I'm not feeling up to it today. Too many bad thoughts."

They whispered to them when he reached out for help, but during the small periods of time filled with the warmth and joy of other people, he could ignore them. When he became Tommyinnit the streamer and not Tommy in his bedroom he couldn't hear them anymore.

At least, that's what it used to be like.

They were loud today. The last couple of weeks actually. It had been hard, insomnia caving his rational thinking and the hunger pains in his stomach making it hard to focus.

Time was always slowest in the nights. It stretched for years and years, sleep clinging to his under eyes as sleep begged for him to just shut his lids and just let it take over him and let him heal but instead he forced them open. He would rather be asleep. He would love to be asleep. But when he closed his eyes, nothing happened. Nothing but his thoughts.

You're so ungrateful. The thoughts whispered. The bad ones. You have this life. This full, fucking life brimming with success and everything you have ever dreamed of, yet you feel this way. What a terrible fucking person. What a terrible fucking friend. Terrible son. You don't deserve what was given to you. You don't deserve this, this luck that you've stumbled across.

The "you don't deserve" is what was getting to be the loudest.

You don't deserve your friends.

You don't deserve this life.

You don't deserve to eat.

It wasn't a matter of not being skinny. He knew- he knew everybody talked about how malnourished he looked. "Look at him," he was sure they were whispering, "All skin in bones. Just a twig. He could snap at any moment. Such a small, insolent child."

He was sure people thought of him that way.

Yeah, it wasn't a matter of not being skinny. It was a matter of deserving it.

He didn't deserve it.

Looking at the food, looking at the thing that was supposed to give him substance, the pain crowded his head like smoke, clogging up his eyesight and filling his lungs.

What you deserve... is pain. You deserve pain. You don't deserve to eat. You don't deserve to eat. You don't deserve to eat. You don't deserve to eat. You don't deserve to eat. You don't deserve to eat. You don't deserve to eat.

It was hard to ignore his thoughts especially when they screamed that loud.

He had been keeping track. It was almost like a game. A game of feeling miserable and appeasing the voice.