Really, really.

Like a friend of mine would say, I'm internally fucked-the-hell-up. Really, really.

So much so that I have to share my rants and thoughts with another person, one on one, to make my load feel a little lighter on my shoulders. So much so that I don't know how much they've affected me. So much so that I have nightmares, atleast twice a week, which in turn lead to crying, for hours on end. So much so that sometimes it even scares me. So much so that I try not to zone out anymore, or else I'll get caught up in these thoughts of fucked-the-hell-up me.

I'm going to see a psychiatrist. Really, really. Me. A psychiatrist. Someone to whom I will reveal all these, fucked-the-hell-up emotions of mine and thoughts, and rants. Then, when I feel comfortable enough, I might tell him the real reason I'm there, eventually.

Perhaps