I’d walk home, first feeling like a useless, selfish piece of shit, then angry at myself for wasting energy beating myself up (a routine which helps exactly zero refugees). It didn’t matter if I’d actually done something good and civic-minded that day (like calling my representative) or if I’d gone on an ill-advised Facebook-posting binge. By the time the sun went down each day, all hope seemed to drain away, and fear settled in for the night. I never cooked dinner. Cooking meant my hands would be busy and my mind free to wander, and I couldn’t let it do that. I needed something fast, so I could sit down and eat in front of the TV as quickly as possible. Again, none of these were deliberate decisions. At no point did I think to myself, “I am scared and therefore I will reach for comfort food.” I’d just whip out my phone for the billionth time, and for a good thirty minutes, scroll through menus instead of news. Inevitably, though, I’d wind up ordering noodles, dumplings, or ramen, from the exact same restaurant in my neighborhood.