I often doubt myself about how much I share on the Internet. I fear that, especially in retrospect, I will regret having made private struggles so public.
But I also can't worry about hindsight. I can only think about now, about one foot in front of the other, and this road that feels long even though I am only 31 and this is supposed to give me hope.
Hope is the thing with feathers, said Emily Dickinson. Well. Either it's flown or is molting. I just feel bitter. Resigned. Trapped. I hate my current life. I hate trying. I hate testing. I hate waiting. I hate hoping.
I want to be one of those obnoxious people who goes off birth control and reveals pregnancy to be a lark rather than an odyssey. "We weren't trying, but we weren't not trying."
I hate how simple it is for some. Or maybe I hate how not simple it is for some. Not sure, it's a little confusing. But I definitely hate. I am filled with hate, and I am fucking telling it how it is because fertility is not all baby showers and fucking onesies with paws and bear ears on them.
It's just not.