H and I had a long gloomy night with not much sleep in it. And entirely too much introspection.
This has all hit my darling H very hard. He had begun to hope that maybe, just maybe, this time it’d go well. Oh, H. Oh, my dear heart.
He has also reached a place in his own processing of the woebollockydreariness mind-fuckage of infertility and loss, where being all British Male With Stiff Upper Lip and Emotional Constipation is not helping him, and he can feel it is not helping him.
Seeing what immense comfort and support I have been getting from the blogging community, and from having a good rant/vent/bitch/shriek as-and-when, H actually sat up past midnight setting up his own blog. So he can rant/vent/bitch/shriek too. Who knows if this will be something he just needs to do for now, while the pain is still fresh and sharp, or whether it’ll become a regular thing. I so hope there’ll be no need for it to become a regular thing.
Dear good readers, if any of you can spare a little bloggy love for a brand new blogger, please give it to H.
(P.S. H is being a tad more easy-to-find than I am. While I don’t wish to prevent real-life people blood-hound-tracking me back from his blog (hell, if they’re that curious, bring it on), I’d rather not make it too easy for the idle clickers to idly pick through my vapourings. So, please, make it all about H while you’re over there).