Return of the Freak

I fear I've been irreversibly damaged, by none other than yours truly. (I've never actually understood that- why does "yours truly" mean "me"? How does that even make sense?)
I'm in a super shitty place mentally right now, and I don't even know what I'm doing with myself anymore. Every time I see someone that I had relations with, I get angry.
False.
Only when I see people I cared about and had relations with do I get angry. Whether at them or at myself I've yet to decide.
And then there's the fact that my brains completely stopped working. Serves me right, leaving the country for  7 months and expecting to come back and have everything just as I'd left it. Ugh. What bullshit. I can't write anymore. I don't think I can even bullshit anymore. And I most certainly cannot creatively write. I'm angry with myself. I'm angry with my parents for fucking up their shit and driving my sister crazy. I'm angry with my profs for speaking with complex terminology that I don't think I understand a hundred percent.... God, I'm just overall angry.
Plus, I think I have an STI.
False.
I know I have an STI, and I just haven't had the balls to go to the doctor and have it confirmed. Because I'm a pussy. And I don't want solid proof that I'm right. Even though I know I'm right anyways, there's a tiny part of me that hopes that if I go see the doctor they'll tell me it's something else completely and can be cured.
But I'm not stupid enough to believe that.
Every time I think about the STI and the guy I associate as having given it to me, I break down and cry.
Breaking News: I don't have my shit together, contrary to popular belief. I'm a real fucking mess.
And by last count, I'm pretty sure I'm at 36? Jeez. I don't even know anymore.

Good thing no one else reads this anymore. Or at least here's hoping.
Damnit. Now that it's occurred to me, I fear posting this in case people *are* reading it. Turns out, just as I don't have the balls to see a doctor, I also don't have the balls to admit this to myself via blog posting.
               That's not right.
It's not a matter of admitting it to myself. I'm already aware and in acceptance of it. It's that I don't have the balls to let *people* know.
Tough shit. Now you know.