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On Tuesday evening, as the anxiety, hurt and fear of millions settled into an uneasy and impermanent sense of relief, one sentiment was widely expressed: this is no way to live. This cycle of dread and panic, of being driven to the edge at full speed before someone slams the brakes, harms our nervous systems, and has the potential to break our spirits. Many people seemed acutely aware of this yesterday, after word broke that the threatened annihilation of the Iranian people had been forestalled, at least for the moment, and a shaky and incomplete ceasefire had been established. It wasn’t entirely clear what had caused this shift. Did Tuesday mark some kind of economic and strategic deadline, after which damages would be utterly unsustainable for the United States? Was Trump simply blustering out of desperation to meet that deadline? Did he plan to follow through with merciless attacks on civilian infrastructure, but get pushback from CENTCOM, as some have suggested? Tuesday night, all we knew for sure was that the promised attempt to wipe out “a whole civilization” had been put on hold, at least for a moment, and we wanted off this ride.

As we awaited word about whether or not Trump’s threatened war crimes would take place, some people marched and gathered. Some connected with friends and loved ones. Many of us attended to our daily obligations and routines, however unnatural it may have felt. We attended work meetings, did housework, and watched TV. I saw someone post about not being sure whether it made sense to follow through on their daily tasks, given that all hell might break loose within hours.

That post reminded me of my college years, when I was steeped in a near-fatal depression. On a regular basis, I would find myself debating whether I should do my homework, or whether I would kill myself that night. If I was going to die, did I really want to spend my remaining hours doing homework? But if I didn’t die, I would be annoyed the next day that I hadn’t done my work. This conundrum, which may sound ridiculous, was real for me. I found the world unbearably bleak, and I didn’t understand how other people could move through their lives without feeling hounded and haunted by atrocity and human cruelty. I survived, not because I had any particular purpose or will to live, but on impulse, and every day was a battle of impulses. The most fundamental instinct, to keep breathing, squared off with a desire to disappear completely.

I know too much about surviving a hopeless existence to be willing to live that way.

One problem I had back then that I don’t have now is that I lacked healthy fears. I don’t view fear as an enemy. Fear is a primal communication. But our responses to that........

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