I couldn't be bothered updating this blog.
I can't even be bothered to use Blogger even though I have decided to write something.
I've been staring at the dust residing on the floors for 2 days without feeling compelled to sweep, vacuum, mop or even simply to wipe down with a damp rag. This is really out of character for me. But seriously, after coming down with a slight fever TWICE since I've moved in here is no joke. The body induces its own aches without any form of serious exertion, let alone when I fervently clean this cemented patch of a flat from front to back, top to bottom for an estimated 5 hours at a go.
The husband is delirious each time he catches me with a dazed expression, and proceeds to touch various parts of my head immediately to make sure that I am not running a temperature. I am thankful for his concern for my well-being, but as mentioned before, I'd much prefer to be fussed over every waking moment than only when I seem unwell.
Someone needs to feel special here. And that person is me.
I realise that I don't seem to be myself no more.
I talk different. I think different. My expectations of the world around me seems to have changed as well.
And I cannot say that all this is good.
Something's come over me. If only I knew what it is.
Hip-hop and pop music hurts my ears. I'm sticking to jazz, blues and "Cafe Del Mar"-ish music until I give birth. This baby obviously has his/her own preferences.
The husband says it's due to impending motherhood. I'd say I'm just crazy and digging my own emotional grave.
I fear I'm losing myself.
The crazed nicotine addict who still seems able to control her own emotions.
The foul-mouthed Goth girl who blushes the moment her love looks straight into her eyes.
I've not been myself. And I worry that once this baby is here, I will never be myself ever again.
I will become someone else.
Someone new, who ultimately is still me, but in the essence of my former carefree deranged self, not actually me.
Somehow, being pregnant has taken away my own identity. It's happened before, and it's happening again now.
But this time round, the ending WILL be different. This baby WILL arrive into this world.
And THAT may just change me for the rest of my life.
The commitment, the responsibilities, of another life being under my care and supervision...
Just the mere thought of it makes me shudder.
And we haven't even considered the amount of pain that labour might inflict in my nether regions.
I say "might" to instill some hope that it may not hurt that much after all.
But who is to know?
Every woman experiences a different labour each time even if they have more than one child, let alone to have someone else tell me how it might be like for me six months down the road when my baby is due.
I wish I had a close friend who knows what will happen and what to do.
But pity there are none.
I guess there must be a pioneer for everything, and here I am, being the first of my batch to be married and impregnated.
Maybe when the day comes when someone I know is expecting, it would be my honour to bestow upon her the wisdom and knowledge for childbirth. However, given the fact that I hardly have many female friends, let alone confidantes, I'd probably be spared the title of Pregnancy and Baby Advisor to anyone.
That might be a good thing.
Mothers can be selfish creatures. And given the fact that no one is here for me during my ordeal, why should I be there for anyone during theirs? I have nothing to offer anyway. As always.
