ABSTRACT
The unthinkable pressures and seismic hormonal waves of motherhood took all the resources I had for managing myself and emptied them within a week. It seems these resources (fluid forces such as a constant questioning of things and the safe resting space of logic) are not easily stored and are no match for the marble permanence of the inner voice that tells me on day two or three that my baby is so deeply unfortunate to have to stare up at my face.
