Stuck in a Rutt

As the title says, im stuck in a big rutt, since i was about 11 years old, Ive kept a paper journal, from little fairy diaries with lock and keys, to material covered exercise books, to the lush brown leather ones one can only drool about, for as long as I can basically remember I've written in a journal,

the front cover of my second last leather journal

this was me, the girl who lived in her journal...

my writing dropped off a bit whilst i lived in england, mainly cause of the depression that place gave me with its 4 shades of grey days and the army wenches that looked at me weird cause I had long skirts and docs lol and not the soft pink mock velvet trackies on! I made my journals a work of art almost, where pages were filled with colour and collages, poetry and all around prettyness...I started a journal this year, after being on hiatus almost for a year, a year of no writing made me so sad...but I bought journals, started them, and couldnt 'move in' so to speak because it felt weird. I make my journals a home, so if one doesnt feel safe in their home, they move out ...and so i did. This year my bestfriend soph made me promise to start a journal and write for a year in it, I even went against everything i love and bought a journal moleskine to be exact with dates, so that it would sort of keep me motivated, cant have blank pages thats a sin.
next to me at the moment, is my moleskine, so far ive probably writtena bout 20ish pages. from teh entire year, its devastating to me, to flick through it and wonder why the hell am i bothering, this book needs more than I can give...when did my thinking get like this? when did writing my life down become such a chore?

I made a promise to myself when I was about 15, and I had several filled diaries on my bookshelf, that I would forever write my life down, no matter what happens because I wanted to pass them down to my kids...if anything was to happen to me, they would at least have years and years of my life for them to sit in a corner and discover from my eyes.

the when daddy met mummy journal...the start of my relationship with paul, photos, our wedding postcards letters rose petals from my wedding flowers, movie tickets photographs, everything that you could think of is inside the cover of this well worn brown leather journalWhen did my life become so unimportant to myself that i thought it didnt need to be written down, do i disrespect myself that much now? over the last 3 years I have gathered alot of self hate for myself, and maybe thats whats blocking my journals from being filled...the pages of my books dont deserve to be treated the way i treat myself. Even as I write this sudden truth down, my eyes fill with tears, does it take me writing on a online blog for people I may never meet to make me understand that my life DOES deserve to be poured down onto those pages...that only I am stopping it from happeneing and no one else...I've lost such big chunks of myself since i started writing, maybe those chunks were the parts of me that kept that writer spirit alive...
gosh someone pull me out of this rutt before I fall into it so deep that I may never pull myself out, and my blank notebooks may never be touched by hands again.
sorry this post was so long, I kind of babble when im upset.