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that the guilt is part of the responsibility that I’ve been given as the new ruler. It is unavoidable, like taxes.
    There will be more guilt. So much guilt. Some of it will be so severe that the country will be undergoing constant economic sanctions. Eventually the country will have to declare bankruptcy. I will try to run the country while bankrupt for a while, which will only produce more sanctions, more guilt.
    And there will be more trouble to come along, riots and disobedience so devastating that martial law will have to be imposed over my country—an intervention of military authorities due to an ongoing emergency.
    Finally, there will be shame.
    It will be the shame that I am failing myself as a monarch—and how ungrateful of me when so many women want to rule countries andcan’t!—and that I am failing my loving king and the king’s mother and my beautiful, supportive sister and my mother and my father and most of all the people of my country. The sweet little people who depend on me so much. Who cannot go to another country because I am theirs and they’re mine and I’ve accepted the crown without any doubt in my heart that this was precisely what I wanted.
    But right now we’re in the beginning of my reign. After the crowning, the people are waiting outside my queenly tower and they are hungry, naked and somewhat angry.
    The crown is a little tight on my head but I come out on the balcony and show them my breasts bursting with milk and they cheer in admiration and with voracious need, and I feel powerful and loved. I feel that I’m the right ruler of this place—there was no mistake that I’ve been chosen to do this.
    Besides, if I’ve any doubt about my ability to handle the responsibility, I am told of millions of monarchs like me who have handled their little queendoms just fine. People in my own family can testify—and readily do—how ruling a country comes naturally for my gender. There’s no magic to it. Sure, there will be mistakes, but it’s expected that my natural instincts will overrule selfishness, helplessness, fear … alcoholism. My strong will to do well as a ruler will be enough to protect me from the darkness that’s engulfing my heart.
    The natural instincts will ensure that I will not poison the food source for the people who depend on me. That I will not let it out into the sea (the sink) and give my people artificially manufactured substitute. That I will not endanger my people in any way—even if it’s just because of the egomaniacal prohibition: the fact that they are flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood.
    But mostly because of the deep, instant, desperate love I have for my people. After all, I love my country. I would die for my country.
    After all, I knew that I would be a ruler of it one day, that the people would depend on me. That it would be expected of me to handle this responsibility. That I would know exactly what to do because we, women, just do. My mother-in-law just knew what to do and my own mother supposedly knew exactly what to do. And even my grandmother knew what to do even though she had been secretly shipped away to a sanatorium for two years, after giving birth to her own country, for something known as “melancholic nature.” They didn’t have the term “postpartum depression” back then. And as one of the women in my family once actually said, they didn’t have the luxury of calling nonsense a psychological disorder.
    I don’t know if what I’m going through as a new mother is postpartum depression. It is suggested to me more than once, and I use the term to excuse why I’m failing so much in my new role. But even that comes with guilt. Why can’t I just snap out of it? I’m even taking medication—Prozac—to help me deal with depression, but it doesn’t seem to help because I keep deteriorating anyway and postpartum depression sounds like a luxurious term to me too, a luxurious excuse to cover what I deeply believe to be a moral