I am really bad at committing myself to blogging regularly. Something I really don't understand, considering that I have had zero issue with doing that in the past. I can't help but wonder if this just means I've become more boring as a person because I'm (very) slowly transitioning into a functioning adult or if I just suck at any kind of commitment in general. Writing - personal/creative/informal has always been very instinctive to me ever since I was younger but I feel like that is less and less so now and I despise myself for that. Every time I open the Google Docs, I feel this sense of dread and trepidation. I skim over my writings, because I'm afraid of reading it too closely and finding it stupid and problematic, and subsequently starting over. I used to have less problems opening up to people but now I'm struggling with expressing myself, and confiding in people that I hold dear to me. I struggle more with making simple conversations. I worry that whenever I excitedly babble on and on about the stuff I love - art, art history, poems, literature, Marvel, jewelry making and cute stuff etc. I am annoying/boring people.
I can't help but feel that this is the case, especially when I think about my past relationship, where I was so sure that I was in control of everything and being taken care of, when I was really not. I realized how much I changed myself for him, and how much I was changing my goals, letting go of my expectations and what I wanted for myself and in life just to make it work. I don't want children. Oh, how I resent myself for that. I want to move to a temperate country and live in a small but cosy apartment, with a cat and a dog, or two cats and two dogs. And maybe a romantic partner in which marriage may or may not happen - I don't think it's necessary. My previous one was an exception in the sense that he was so bloody annoying, emotionally manipulative and constantly harassing me to the point that it drove me absolutely crazy. I'm really trying to change that in the current relationship I have now. Even if this is a casual one that doesn't eventually work out, although I must admit that it'd be nice if it does, despite the problems we have, though I'm too wary to even hope for it.
I feel like I'm just losing some of the interesting parts of myself that make me me, and am regressing into this socially awkward, bland, shell of a human being. What happened to the parts of me that wrote and read voraciously, made jewelry and doodled and painted?
In confessing my doubts and fears here in this blog I hope to reacquaint myself, through ponderous reflections, and with these parts of me that seem to be lost amidst the sea of academic and social stress that I am pervaded with ever since university life began.
My parents are so fucking noisy writing or reading is impossible in this household.
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