eMPTy

Made in Taiwan. 50% Asian. 100% depressed

[phoebeisempty]

Reason

I’m still around

I’ve made it farther once again

I didn’t quit

Even though I wanted to

I was going to

I mean I quit the job again

I quit all the meds

I quit therapy

I quit getting outta bed

But now I’m here still and I didn’t quit life

I feel

Ok again

I can get out of bed again

I can breathe without guilt

He was around for it all

I quit caring about the rest of them

Even her

But I couldn’t bring myself to give him up

He gives me love

He gives me warmth

He gives me hope

He gives me a reason

I can’t give myself reason

I don’t care about myself that way

But with him

Maybe I can care about myself a little

With him

I can see a future

With him

I want a future

I want a reason

I want to live

He gave me hope

He gave me a reason to live

Maybe one day I can be my own

But for now I’m still here and he is the reason

[phoebeisempty]

I wish I had the guts to kill myself

But I don’t

So I’ll sleep the regular way I guess

[phoebeisempty]

Current collection

[phoebeisempty]

Rocks are therapy

[phoebeisempty]

Not bad enough

I don’t understand how seeking help could be so… difficult.

You’re told to admit you need help. To tell those you trust and to tell a doctor. To ask for help.

But then. What. No wonder they don’t say anything more. They don’t say you’ll get help. That anyone will even know how to help. That you will have to essentially help yourself.

When you feel hopeless, admitting and asking for help is 100 times harder cause you already don’t have enough hope it’ll amount to anything. And then not receiving any help shreds any reminiscent hope you were holding on to.

I understand the wait times. The procedures to follow and the way things are and why. Doesn’t mean I agree with them I guess.

Following up with someone should be mandatory. Telling someone they don’t qualify should be mandatory. Leaving them at a “these things take time” for them to find out a year later that there’s no record of your intake and someone decided not to go any further with you without telling you shouldn’t be a possibility.

Maybe it’s my fault for trying so hard. For fighting so hard. For lasting this long. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t able to be taken seriously. I’m just that impressive outwardly that the actual crumple of my being and will are ignore because I’m still functioning externally.

I can’t go a day without thinking about dying. Be it intrusive thought style, to actually wondering how to go about it, to just wishing someone would do it for me, accidental or purposely. I almost acted on it once a couple years ago. The sheer amount of pills in my hand was thankfully(?) enough to stimulate my brain enough to think about it a bit longer. Google has def convinced me that’s a horrible way to do it, especially if I fuck it up.

I’ve been sliding down a downward slope since middle school and I can feel it getting worse and worse. The older I get the less hope I have that it’ll be better eventually. But yet. When I finally admit it. When I make it painfully clear I’m not ok and I need help, that even though truthfully I want to live, all I can think about and desire is not living. That I’ve made it this far and idk how much farther I’ll get. I quit my job. Again. Jobs make me want to end it all. It’s not a life worth living if I’m wasting the majority of it doing shit I don’t care about, just to afford some glimpse of life on my days off. I went from I wanna kill myself to I’m going to kill myself. I quit my job before I quit my life. Now what. I’m expected to get another one. I honestly don’t know if I can handle ending up in the same place at another job. I’m not handling this one very well. I’m not ok and I’m really trying my best, I’m so fucking far past my limit idk how to keep going.

“It’s unfortunate, I know, but you might not be bad enough”

…

…..

Not bad enough.

…..

…

So.. what… I tried so hard and am asking for help just to be told I tried too fucking hard and don’t qualify for help right now?

Wanting to kill myself, but still having a shred of sanity to know that I truthfully want to WANT to live but just don’t see the point in it. Isn’t bad enough?

The fuck is bad enough? Being in the process of killing myself? Having tried to but oops I failed so I’m still here ffs? Is it because I DIDN’T go through with it two years ago? BAD ENOUGH, SHOULDN’T THE GOAL BE TO PREVENT PEOPLE FROM BAD ENOUGH.

Shouldn’t preventing bad enough be just as important. If someone fully decides their going to kill themselves, they will. No safety plan or call list is going to prevent that. When I decide I’m done, when I figure out my plan, that’s it. I’m not going to ask for help. I didn’t fucking ask or reach out two years ago. Bad enough. Fuck that fuck that whole system what the fuck. Help me before I’m bad enough, when I’m bad enough it’ll be too fucking late.

Maybe it’s my fault for trying so hard. Maybe that was what I needed to hear to give up finally. Maybe it’s just spite that I’m playing chicken now. Maybe I’m dancing with the idea of bad enough now. Maybe, hopefully, I’ll be able to be “bad enough” now before I’m truly bad enough.

[phoebeisempty]

Defective

Ever since I thought about the root of my problems and used a thesaurus I came across an emotional realization.

I feel defective.

And I don’t think I can be “helped” “saved” “fixed”

Maybe I was born this way, maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I grew and broke. Maybe I think everyone else is just brainwashed…

This world, society, life, that humans made. Revolve around money and work. That’s what “life” is.

But it just sounds like surviving and grasping at what little life you can on your days off.

I guess people who are passionate about their jobs don’t feel that way.

I wish I was generic. I wish something simple intrigued me. I wish when I was growing up that dreaded question what do you want to be when you grow up was properly dealt with.

I became an artist. I am an artist. A storyteller. I have so many stories I want to illustrate and share. But that’s it. That’s what I want to do. But that doesn’t pay the bills until you’re well known. I don’t want to work at a studio and create other peoples works. I don’t want to dread the passion I have because I’m forced to do it someone else’s way. I struggle with and avoid opening commissions because I just don’t enjoy them. It feels selfish, just take the money right? No. I know some people want to support me, some people just want to see their idea come to life, but how many times have I heard an idea and thought why the hell did they ask me to do this.

Not doing commissions for people boils down to being a crappy judgemental creator and an insecure imposter. It doesn’t bring me joy. Shouldn’t artists be happy when someone commissions them? Why can’t I just do the work. Get the money.

I know people that enjoy life and their work exist. But as someone that is passionate about such specific independent work and nothing else. Enjoying life sounds impossible. Idk how I’m suppose to do this. The whatever jobs I’m qualified to do more damage than good, the only good they do is give me money to survive. Oh and an impressive track record for how long someone can function so far past their limit.

I feel defective. Or am I just not brainwashed. I feel defective.

[phoebeisempty]

Human bodies are dumb

Apparently if you don’t eat

Your body reacts by becoming nauseous and tries to throw up

How the fuck are you suppose to fix the problem and eat when you’re busy feeling dizzy and dry heaving

Dumb

[phoebeisempty]

Waste of time

Living feels like a waste of time

Living right now is going to work

Working a job I don’t care about

Enjoying the weekend and repeat

There’s 365 days in a year. Times that by however many years you get in your life and the majority is spent forced into school. Forced into work. Forced into mental illness. Forced into life.

I love my friends. I love my family. I love Partner and Best friend. I wasn’t outrageously bullied or abused by someone else. I’m an average height. And probably decently attractive from what I can tell. I can sing well and create quite well. My life is probably ideal or at least better than many peoples bare minimum ideals. But if I were given the choice to never have been born. There’s a good chance I’d take it.

I spent my entire school experience undiagnosed. Feeling “crazy”. When I was in elementary school I cried a lot. So much I’d have to get sent in the hall and go on a walk with Ms Snow. I don’t remember what she’d say but eventually I’d calm down. I don’t remember why I cried so much. But I heard it was because of assignments I couldn’t do. I remember the feeling of absolute confusion, disgust, fear, and pity. I knew I couldn’t do the assignment immediately and perfectly the first time so I couldn’t even try. My parents were told I’d grow out of it. I never did. Crying became shutting down which became breakdowns which became spirals of doom which became suicidal ideation.

At some point I began to lose to abilities to speak and move when I cried. Fear of failure? Rejection? Simply never being taught how to regulate emotions? I don’t know why I needed to be perfect. Maybe because my brother was smarter than me and my parents didn’t compliment me enough. I hated writing assignments. Topics I didn’t care about. Topics that made no sense. Topics based on my own opinions. Why did what I have to say matter all of sudden. I remember feeling ignored. Pushed into situations I clearly didn’t want. Told stranger danger but then told to order my own food. But not told how. What if I did it wrong. Why is it my fault I’m scared of the stranger behind the counter. Why can’t you just order my damn chicken nuggets for me like you always did. Why is everyone looking at me. Why are you mad that I’m crying. Cant you see that I’m afraid and confused. Help me.

I remember my dad focused on the computer often. My brother focused on legos. My mom focused on cooking. I remember talking and noticing they didn’t care.

Who is your hero? The worst writing prompt ever. Two kids completely unable to write this assignment. I never had a hero growing up. I didn’t look up to anyone. I followed my brother around and adapted a lot of his personality. I learnt exactly what I don’t want to be from my parents and everyone else but still, genetics and life has its ways.

I got to write about my best friend. But really, my dad wrote that assignment, aside from physically typing it.

Boring. Pointless. Confusing. Stupid. Why did my opinion matter all of a sudden. Why did people want to hear what I had to say now. And why did all those prompts suck.

My brain always went black. I had nothing to say. I had no words. It was like English and language didn’t exist anymore. I wonder if the failure in getting us to be bilingual aided in that. Or my future diagnosis.

When I got older, school got harder. More boring and pointless. Who the fuck cares about social studies. Math problems, science questions, social studies worksheets, the answers were always in front of you but sometimes I just couldn’t find them. Que the waterworks of eventual self hatred. Que the father unable to emotionally connect with anyone unless it’s anger. Que just another reason for my parents to fight.

I never got sent to my room like my brother. When shit went south I dipped out. Catch me crying in my room with my only emotional support. Stuffed animals. And the brain that would eventually develop poorly. I guess when I was young and couldn’t grasp concepts and ideas well, I’d cry it out, sleep it off, and hope no one was pissed off anymore cause my bedroom is now boring. Cute apparently. Army crawling with one of my support stuffies to see if the coast was clear and any enemies were just pedestrians now. Maybe that was the beginning of my desire to run away.

My brother had a hard life apparently. Bullied for our race. Bullied for seeming gay. Bullied for existing. We didn’t have good role models so his love life wasn’t helping the situation either. Crazy attracts crazy. Crazy enables crazy. He’s a hot mess. But at least that’s just another person to not end up like. If I really consider it, I guess I was bullied. Everyone likes to downplay it when it’s “girl drama” but I was always an easy target apparently. Maybe closet racism? Maybe I just radiate easy target. Maybe I already had no self respect and let it happen. Apparently. I’m a bitch. Rich bitch. Slut. Raging bitch. Asian bitch. Bitch. People with their own issues just love to walk all over me, I let them, and of course if I don’t. Bitch. Bitch either way. Live my own life but somehow they get intertwined. Bitch. As if I had enough mental capacity to be fucking people over. I was busy worrying about essays and getting perfect grades. Bitch.

I almost always got the guy. But aside from fearing parents finding out. Lack of education and awareness. And a declining self image. Getting the guy was more trouble than worth. I never felt attractive. Beautiful. Worthy. And every time my curiosity outweighed my anxiety, I’d get steamrolled by guilt and self hatred. Plus society loves to just crush woman for enjoy and experiencing anything.

I went through school bored and afraid. A constant downward spiral in emotional stability. I made connections and experiences. But my identity and self were lost.

Turns out I have ADHD. Turns out I may have BPD. I’m pretty sure I have or have been on the way to an eating disorder for years. I worked through the bad paralysis in shut downs, it’s still a struggle though. I moved a lot. Changed jobs a lot. Learned Chinese and comics and graphic novels. I’ve enjoyed a lot. Fucked a decent enough amount of men. Loved. Grieved. Laughed. Smiled. Cried a shit ton. Hurt a fuck ton.

I love my partner and I love my best friend. I love my friend groups. I don’t hate myself. I don’t hate my current job. I don’t like myself. I don’t like working. I don’t like crying. I don’t like my body. I don’t like this part of my life. I don’t like this society. I don’t like this world. I don’t like this life. There’s not enough time to be alive. There’s not enough time to enjoy the limited time you get. Living feels like a waste of time.

[phoebeisempty]

I’m tired

I’m tired

I’m tired Of life

Working a job just for money. Waking up just to work. Living to afford life. If I die tomorrow I’d have more regrets than good memories. Everyday feels like a waste of time. Like I’m watching a countdown with an unknown number. Wishing for more wanting more begging for more. Living for the weekend. A weekend that never lasts. A feeling that never lasts. A life that won’t last. I’m tired of it.

[phoebeisempty]

I’m “broke”

It’s either save everything or spend everything

So now I’m living late rent paycheque to paycheque

Tap into savings and live a little or just suffer

Man I hope this job application goes well

[phoebeisempty]

I’m tired

Sometimes I think everyone else must be… just… so dumb. Their brain can only actually reach a certain point of intellect, till it just… stops. Or maybe many are just in denial. Or that I’ve accidentally reached a state of over awareness that I wasn’t suppose to and now I’m just fucked. The human race has come such a long way but we’re still so flawed. We don’t need to be.

Im beginning to lose hope. Actually beginning is an understatement. Why is racism even a thing. Why is sexism and rape so difficult to stop. Why must labels, identities, pronouns, understanding be denied.

I wished I believed in a God. Maybe I’d feel comfort if I did. But I don’t.

Everyone needs a therapist, probably. I definitely do. I’m long overdue for getting into therapy, especially considering my generation. But Im not eager to get therapy. I don’t believe I can be helped. And isn’t wanting help and believing in a better you and a better life the first step to therapy or something? I probably could’ve used help in terms of when I hated my entire being. Probably still can… but its not a big problem in my life anymore, I like myself.

I’ve come a long way to be able to say that. I hope I can love myself one day, if I last long enough, maybe therapy can help with that… probably… but maybe not.. My opinions of myself aren’t my biggest problem anymore. The reason I dread waking up, the reason I look into the void when a vehicle drives by, the reason I reach for a bottle of pills, the reason I feel so uncomfortable breathing, living, continuing, the reason my suicidal ideation keeps pounding behind my eyes. Is because this world, this earth, this society, this reality, is one… I don’t fit in.

What’s the point. The most dangerous question, statement and wonder. I’ve realized. The three words that inch me ever so close to offing myself. Whats the point of working. For money. For what. Everything. Why. Thats how it is. So we work these jobs, we waste away at these jobs, our whole lives. Its birth, school, work, school, work, family, death. Or birth, school, work, family, death. Or birth, work, family, death. Maybe you have a career you like or maybe you raise a family you can love. We all just die anyways. So for someone without a career I enjoy, who’s working these pointless jobs just to pay to live and play this shitty game we call life it feels like a waste. It’s like those dumb iPad games with all the in app purchases everyone ends up quitting unless your loaded on time and money.

I’m wasting my time doing things I hate so I can eventually do the things I love. But I can’t do the things I love cause I’m wasting all my time and energy on shit I hate.

What a fucking joke.

We keep hopeful everyone at least gets to have some sort of family and support, but who am I kidding. Give or take anything, you’re born, you age, you die. You don’t even get a choice. The older you get the faster life gets. What a fucking waste of time. What a fucking horrible deal. I don’t want to age. I don’t want to die. But I will.

So what’s the point.

It’s not fun, its not a great time, it really not worth it, society is fucked, the school system is fucked, the work system is fucked, humans are fucked. Why not just skip to the end. I don’t fit in here, and sure a therapist can give me some ways to cope, but they can’t remove the finish line, they can’t change humanity. I can’t change humanity. And even if I could help start the change I’ll die before I get to live in a good world.

This world, this earth, this society, this reality is not for me.

So I’ll sit here, with tears running down my cheeks, and think about everyone I love, and everyone that loves me, I’ll look at the earth around me and I’ll go to work, and I’ll keep breathing and living and continuing, as I keep aging, until one day, whatever day it is, I reach the finish line, be it forced upon me, or naturally. Hilariously cruel.

I’m fucking tired.

[phoebeisempty]

Jealousy

I’m not living for myself

When I’m alone the world feels wrong

I feel sad and lonely

Everything feels pointless

But when he’s around everything stops and everything is comfy

But as he leaves there’s a glimmer

Jealousy

Maybe one day I’ll be enough for me

[phoebeisempty]

Therapy

I’m afraid

Afraid it won’t help

It takes a lot to reach out and if it amounts to nothing it feels like another failure on top of a pile of feeling worthless.

There’s so many things wrong with me. Sure they can help with some but the most important part that everything circles back too

I can’t imagine what help anyone could do for someone that doesn’t want to be alive because of the natural ending point and the natural journey it’ll take to get there.

I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna age, grow old. I don’t wanna die. But I don’t wanna be alive.

[phoebeisempty]

I found my favourite place here

Gazing at a sight that never used to move me

A city of stars

A view of artificial constellations painted so elegantly atop the waters

Taken aback by the lights and the sound of waves

Wind blowing winter air into my outrun lungs

My ears frozen along with my numb cheeks and hands

A moment I was content

No longer empty

A moment where I didn’t mind the cold

And yet

You made me warm in just a moment

With one kiss

No longer thinking

You made my heart skip a beat

And for a second I thought

Maybe..

[phoebeisempty]

Sometimes

Sometimes I feel pretty. It’s painful to acknowledge that I can only say “sometimes” I feel pretty. Honestly I don’t think I’m pretty. All I see are uneven ears and tilted glasses, un matching eyelids, an annoying bump on my nose, ugly veins and moles and pale skin, dull brown eyes, and so many other imperfections.

I’ve never felt beautiful, or gorgeous, or attractive. But sometimes there’s an off day, a rare moment, a glance in the mirror at the right time and I feel.. pretty.

My flaws and imperfections are not something I wish to change but something I admire, something that makes me different and as they say, unique. My uneven ears and tilted glasses give off a quirky cuteness. My un matching eyelids have a certain asymmetrical ideal to them. My nose bump is but another unique outline of my face. My veins, noticeable from my pale skin, and my moles are just tattoos of life that I was born with. My brown eyes are not seas of blue but shine golden along with the sun.

Sometimes these aren’t so painful to look at.

Sometimes I feel pretty.

Sometimes.

[phoebeisempty]

Empty

Oh how painful it is to feel so empty to feel so loved just to end up empty again

It physically hurts

My heart doesn't feel like it's there

My eyes won't stop watering

My mind won't stop thinking

These memories feel like wounds

The beauty isn't there anymore

[phoebeisempty]

Things I think

What’s the point in anything if we just die in the end. 

Why get a job you hate. Why get a job that you know makes you want to die just cause money.

I want to wake up and groan cause I’m tired not because I’m disappointed I woke up.

I want to wake up comfortably and happy.

I wish my default feeling wasn’t empty and sad.

The smallest things make me cry. I’m never 1 to 60, cause I’m always at a solid 48.

I used to think eat disorders were terrifying and I’d never develop one. 

They hope their children will come to them with any problems they might have or if something is wrong, but the thing is they failed to realize I stopped going to them when I learnt going to them makes everything worse and for goodness sake don’t fucking cry in front of them.

I don’t think my parents have ever asked if I’m okay. Am I just that good of an actress or?

I’m so not okay.

It started sometime in Middle school and I haven’t gone a day without thinking at least once about dying.

I’m too afraid to die.

My reflection makes me nervous. She doesn’t look familiar, she doesn’t look the way I want her to.

“Exercise will make you happy” “eating right will make you happy” “drink more water” “sunlight” so then why am I still sad.

I can’t even write a cover letter.

My anxiety feels like bricks on my body.

My gag reflex fortunately doesn’t work well.

I can’t finish a meal without thinking about puking at least once.

Sometimes everything looks fake.

Theres a plus side to crying myself to sleep, at least my eye lids will be even the next next day.

I wish my family was closer but it’s too late, my brother and I weren’t raised that way, and my parents half the time look like they’re only tolerating each other.

I hate myself.

I don’t want to be alive. 

I’m tired