Internet strangers tend to know the most about me.

Okay; this isn't technically true.

For example, the internet at large is not necessarily aware that I snore, or have a love affair with dresses paired with leggings (found during my third trimester of my first pregnancy; they're comfortable, okay?).  The internet does not necessarily know that I am the kind of person who will buy red polka dot heels I will never wear, just to stare at them and wish I could be one of those girls that could dress fashionably and have style.  The internet does not know that I like to bite the bottom of my ice cream cone when most of the ice cream is gone and suck the liquid mess out of the bottom like a straw, which I've done since I was a child.  The internet does not know that I sometimes give my husband a dirty look when he just wants some affection or attention when I'm too busy being on the internet.

But there are strangers on the internet who know every detail of my pregnancy.  Who know that I'm pregnant, at all.  Who know my fears.  Who know if I have been spotting or not.  Who know if I'm in a grouchy mood, or a great one.  Who know what I'm craving... or eating for lunch that day.

My family doesn't know this about me.  Hell, they don't even know I'm pregnant.  The reason for this is simple; I don't want to have to explain about losing the baby.  We're waiting until after the first trimester to announce, which is pretty much the exact opposite of what we did with our first -- naive to the reality of life and how harshly it can punch you in the face.

So why, if I can't even fess up to my family -- the people who should be first on the list of people I would want to comfort me through a loss -- do I tell the internet, strangers who don't even know me?

Because it's easier to tell your story to strangers you don't have to face.  Who don't have to see your tears as you write out your story.  Who don't have to watch you explain a loss so intimate, so poignant, so personal.  It's almost a violation of my privacy to have to tell someone about something that hurts so deeply inside.  Nobody wants to go through that more than they have to.

But I can type it out.  I can put down words, write down raw emotion, but still hold something back.  I can hide how many tears it makes me shed.  I can hide my face.  I can hide my voice, which shivers and breaks.  I can hide my heart, that tiny little part of it that I don't want anyone to see.

Words are a window into my life.  My soul.  I write, and a part of me is there in my words, my stories.  But only as much as I let out.  It's a control that I don't have when I speak.

My husband is gently bemused at the fact that I can tell my "mom groups" -- small groups of women that I've become incredibly close to over the past few years -- and a huge group of over ten thousand strangers -- but I simply refuse to tell our family.  It's hard for him to understand, though he supports my decision.

But it's just different.  Honestly, I don't want my family to be the ones nursing me through the grieving process.  It is one thing to tell them it happened -- after the processing has occurred in my heart.  It is another for me to have to tell them, and have them think I want them around to help me get through it.  No matter how much I love them, they aren't who I want to be by my side.

My closest girlfriends?  Yes.  My husband?  Absolutely.  A group of internet strangers?  Oddly enough, yes.  Because that group of internet strangers has been going through what I am going through.  That group of internet strangers has been through it all.  And most importantly, I can get out my words in a healing way for myself, without giving up the privacy that I need during the process.

Thankfully, we are on track with a healthy pregnancy, which will -- in time -- render all these thoughts and precautions rather moot.

It is also amazing the amount of introspection that occurs after midnight.  I think it's time for a more lighthearted mood, don't you?