That I am pregnant again is an act of either incredible optimism or mind-blowing amnesia. As the sonogram technician squirts jelly over my abdomen for my 20-week checkup, I think it's the latter. Watching this baby, who the tech tells me is a boy, I am not caught up in visions of his future; I'm caught up in visions of mine. All of a sudden, I know with a certainty I haven't allowed myself to confront before: Somehow, I am going to have to deliver this baby. Obviously, you say. But my first birth was traumatic, and although my son and I emerged fine, I lost a year seeking treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder and all the depression, fear and anger it brings. I imitated mothers who seemed normal to me, cooing and tickling my son. In truth, I was a zombie, obsessing about how I had ever let what happened happen... Read the full story.