ABSTRACT
One January night before starting the antidepressant Paxil, I had a dream: I am in a log cabin, an infant strapped to my chest. Outside a violent, swirling snowstorm howls through a conifer forest. Sentries in dark fur coats stand knee-deep in the snow guarding the cabin. They have no weapons. There is a civil war. Our side has lost the battle. The victors will come to kill us. A woman sentry advises us not to leave the cabin or let the victors enter. Someone else advises us to fight. We have no weapons. If we stay in the cabin, the invaders will burn it. If we fight, they will kill us. I decide to leave. I trudge through the thick, clinging snow and think that if the choice is survival or a lost cause, I’ll leave and survive.
