Nothing is normal in Israel after 11 months of war, after constant battles on three fronts, after 11 months of desperation for our hostages still held captive, after the execution of six of them. We know exactly how many days we鈥檝e been fighting for them and for our survival. All broadcasts begin with: 鈥淭oday is Day X of the war.鈥� And the number is written in the corner of the TV screen. No escaping it.听

But what does it really mean to be in the abyss of 11 months of war?听

It means that a five-year-old girl, whose father has been in the reserves for months, can tell you with the matter-of-fact seriousness of adults, 鈥淢y father can die, you know.鈥�听

It means that another child, whose relatives are still held by Hamas in Gaza, can say to you, 鈥淢y hostages might never come back.鈥�听

It means we are anchored in grief, never able to enjoy pure happiness.

It means some days we allow ourselves not to cope.

It does not mean that we are weakening, that I am weakening. No. I鈥檓 active. I volunteer at army bases, attend lectures, meet friends for coffee, swim and go to exercise classes. I am strong and determined. Some days, however, heartbreak and anguish bore holes through that prickly sabra (okay, U.S.-born) skin.

Heartbreak and anguish. Words without much depth. I attempt to describe them, give them physical sensations and texture. I can鈥檛 combat what I can鈥檛 envision.听

It鈥檚 heartbreak, I think, that tightens my chest without warning, that makes taking a breath feel like a desperate search for air.听

It鈥檚 anguish, I think, that brings a surge of adrenaline rushing through my body even though there鈥檚 calm all around me.

The pressure in my head intensifies with names and scenes and stories and feelings of helplessness, until, like a stick of dynamite, it explodes in a scream that grabs its energy from every inch of me. A silent yet internally deafening scream that starts out slow and low and doesn鈥檛 end until I collapse from exhaustion. Then, for a minute, I am free of thinking, of remembering.

For a minute.听

Then it鈥檚 back to the brutal, terrifying war. War in the South. War in the North. Rockets from all directions and distances have come from high and low to attack us.听

It鈥檚 back to vigilance, awareness and being prepared.听

We stocked up at the beginning of the war, so long ago. With every renewed threat of missiles, power outages, damaged infrastructure, it鈥檚 time to buy 鈥渏ust a few more items鈥� to add to the two dozen bottles of water, the cans of corn, hearts of palm, tuna, chickpeas, stuffed grape leaves, more tuna. Crackers, peanut butter, energy bars, chocolate, almonds, peanuts, battery packs and emergency lights.听

We share lists on WhatsApp.听

鈥淗ave you bought a generator yet?鈥� a friend asks. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 know if we should.鈥�

鈥淣o, but we looked at some the other day. Do you really think we鈥檒l need one?”

Sometimes items disappear from the goodie box in the mamad, the safe room 鈥� victims of our cravings for crackers or chocolate bars or some nuts. 听 We鈥檙e allowed to nosh, we tell ourselves. It helps us cope. And, after all, these are semi-perishable items and must be eaten before they go bad.听

Nosh. Restock. Nosh. Restock.

We will allow ourselves a day to feel despondent, to cry, to scream, to pray. Then we will take a deep breath and push forward. We are still at war, but we must 鈥� and will 鈥� keep going.听

We aim for normalcy as we navigate the maze of our reality. But no matter which turn we might choose in the coming weeks, we will end up in the dead end of Oct. 7. The weight of despair will try to pull us down deeper into the abyss of heartbreak.听 But we will not hit bottom. We will allow ourselves a day to feel despondent, to cry, to scream, to pray. Then we will take a deep breath and push forward. We are still at war, but we must 鈥� and will 鈥� keep going.

Galia Miller Sprung moved to Israel from Southern California in 1970 to become a pioneer farmer and today she is a writer and editor.听