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War is not only about aggression and destruction; it is also about death. Facing death is terrifying for most people, including myself. My first confrontation with the reality of death occurred at the age of seven. It was my 10th day of school when I learned that my father had died in a car accident abroad. Days passed before his body, enclosed in a sealed coffin, was transported home. This traumatic event shattered my childhood illusion of safety and instilled in me a profound awareness of life’s fragility.
Now, living in the midst of the full-scale invasion, uncertainty and danger have escalated to levels not experienced since World War II. War demolishes lives and destabilizes the illusion of goodness and stability in the world. As Einstein wrote to Freud in 1932, war is a “collective psychosis,” revealing a destructive drive that resides within humans, usually hidden but unleashed in extraordinary circumstances and manifested in horror and destruction.
I cannot stop the war; how can I endure it? My initial efforts to cope involved turning to family, friends, and hobbies — tangible, external sources of comfort. Yet, as a psychoanalyst, I knew I must find deeper resources within myself. Reflecting on my experiences, I recognized the strength of my internalized object: my mother. Despite losing her husband unexpectedly, she remained composed and reliable, providing my brother and me with a sense of safety amidst external chaos throughout our lives. This internalized stability, this container forged through my mother’s fortitude and love, now serves as a source of strength in my work with patients.
Another coping strategy during these terrible times lies in accepting reality and allowing myself to feel whatever arises without denial. In times of crisis as a psychoanalyst, I find myself working more intersubjectivly, emphasizing shared experiences and mutual influence within the therapeutic relationship as my patients and I co-exist in states of shared trauma and extern