Honesty.

Even while writing this I think to myself, who wants to read a depressing, self loathing blog. Who wants to read about pain that is endured, yet pain that is seemingly minimal. Who wants to read ranting from 29 year old woman.

It doesn't matter who wants to read it.
I am not writing this for you.

I'm writing this as a form of self expression; think of it like a piece of art, a painting perhaps.
Dark, dreary, intriguing, sad, but somehow functioning optimistically.

Art is often undefinable because it is ambiguous.

My writing feels the opposite.
My writing feels honest and exposed.

I don't want to be deceptive.
I don't want to undermine the infertility journey.
I don't want it to be brushed aside and overlooked.

Here's my voice.
Crying.
Screaming.
Shouting.
Whispering

Honesty.

- Heather