It was during a late-night run to Lowe’s for any remaining N95 masks that I began to suspect I was propelled by something more than common sense. Perhaps, I told myself, the threat of a pandemic had brought to the surface the alienation I feel in a middle-class Connecticut suburb, after growing up poor. “These wealthy so-and-so’s will just close their gates and sic the dogs on me,” I texted my siblings. Or maybe I was anxious about living on the crowded East Coast, where I can’t literally head for the hills at the first sign of trouble, as I could on the Ozark farm where I grew up.

My blunt childhood friend, Krystal, diagnosed a different cause for my anxiety: “You were raised in a bit of a doomsday cult,” she texted, after I confessed I’d been binge-shopping. “It’s natural your brain would go to the worst-case scenario.” It’s been 27 years since I left the Jehovah’s Witnesses. I went to an Ivy League college, attended graduate school, built a writing career and married a man as irreligious as I am. It’s easy to forget how devout I was in my formative years, when I believed that Armageddon could arrive any day. The coronavirus crisis has reawakened feelings I haven’t experienced since.

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By now, of course, as alarm about the virus has ratcheted up around the world, my survivalist preparations have become less distinguishable from those of friends and neighbors. But being a former Armageddon fundamentalist is like being a problem drinker: On a given day you may toss back no more than the next guy, but he’s normal, and you’re an alcoholic — because your motives are different.

I became a Jehovah’s Witness at age 11, after two proselytizers from a local congregation drove up the mountain road to our family’s isolated farm outside Elkins, Ark., and knocked on the door. Not long after, my mother, my sister and I began attending religious meetings at a nearby Kingdom Hall, where we learned about the coming apocalypse. Since the late 1800s, the Jehovah’s Witnesses have predicted the world’s end at least a half-dozen times. By the 1980s, the specificity had given way to the general notion that Armageddon was imminent: In every earthquake and armed conflict, the church’s members saw echoes of the Book of Revelation.

This February, as I rolled my shopping cart through a Walmart, the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse shadowed my thoughts. The Jehovah’s Witnesses cite the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918 as evidence that this figure from Revelation, who sits atop a pale horse and sows death through plague and other ills, has been riding the Earth in the modern era. I had long ago banished him from my mind, along with Santa Claus, but with a mysterious new disease spreading across the world, a child’s voice whispered, “How can you be so sure?”

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When I was growing up, we didn’t dash to the grocery store whenever a sign of the end times appeared. Because God would protect the faithful, physical preparations were unnecessary. Yet the lurid illustrations of mass destruction in the organization’s literature scared me. Gun-wielding soldiers quaked with fear while Jehovah’s Witnesses stood amid the mayhem wearing beatific smiles. How, I wondered, would I stay safe in all that chaos? I found some comfort in our family’s self-sufficiency. We grew our own vegetables, butchered hogs and chickens, and drew water from a well. I figured we could ride out the worst of Judgment Day right there on our farm.

I wasn’t the only Jehovah’s Witness who struggled to distinguish between the spiritual preparations for Armageddon that church leaders urged and the physical preparations that felt instinctive in the face of a massive catastrophe. My younger brother Caleb, who stayed in the religion for years after I left, recalls that church elders disseminated specs for a survival kit after Hurricane Katrina, which had caught lots of Jehovah’s Witnesses on the Gulf Coast unprepared. Though the stated intent was to ensure that everyone was ready for natural disasters that didn’t immediately usher in Armageddon, many congregants — including my brother — interpreted this directive as an end-times checklist. On it were items such as ipecac syrup, a crank radio and a whistle.

This ambiguity about the connection between spiritual and practical preparedness is evident in other religions, too. My friend Krystal, a mother of two who lives in a suburb of Portland, Ore., was raised in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Mormons are urged to keep on hand at least three months’ worth of food and water. The directive is billed as pragmatic, but it’s also understood by many of the faithful as preparation for the Second Coming. In her acclaimed memoir, “Educated,” Tara Westover describes her childhood in a radical Mormon sect. Her family spent their days preparing for the end times — from stockpiling weapons to learning to deliver babies.

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For most of her adult life, Krystal kept on hand enough food for a year. After she left the church a few years ago, she threw away hundreds of dollars’ worth of spoiled rice and time-hardened beans. Still, old habits die hard. “I have to remind myself that I’m not preparing to go to the bunkers and shoot all my neighbors to guard my food hoard,” she confided recently.

This end-times mind-set is very American. In 1992, the literary critic Harold Bloom declared in “The American Religion” that the United States is “the most apocalyptic of nations.” A Pew Research Center poll conducted a decade ago found that 41 percent of Americans said they expected Jesus Christ to return to Earth by 2050. While some believers leave their fates to God, others are readying themselves for what’s to come, as evidenced by the popularity of books by preppers like Forrest Garvin (“The Case for Christian Preparedness”) and Tom Eckerd (“Christian Prepping 101” and numerous other titles).

Eventually, my family moved off the mountain, and my world broadened. I wanted to go to college. I wanted to go to prom. Such desires were deeply discouraged by the Jehovah’s Witnesses, whose mantra is “be no part of this world.” When I was 17, I told an elder that I lacked the faith to continue — the old “it’s not you, it’s me” breakup line. After a while, I told myself I’d never been a true believer.

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All these years later, the coronavirus has roused my latent Armageddon apprehensions. I no longer believe that religious faith will protect me. It’s tougher to shake the notion that if I buy enough ramen, I might be among the saved. On the brighter side, my past has offered some practical preparation. Social distancing? That’s what the Witnesses practiced with all nonbelievers. The intent was to protect the faithful from the influence of “worldly” people — a sort of spiritual contagion. Today, of course, self-quarantining is about protecting your neighbor as much as yourself, and that’s a goal I can get behind. My major shortcoming as a Jehovah’s Witness was that I couldn’t welcome Armageddon as “good news.” I didn’t relish the destruction of my fellow man.

The rationalist in me knows that our current crisis, despite the apocalyptic overtones, doesn’t herald the violent end described in Revelation. Yet as I continue to resist the impulse to raid my bank account for cash and stock up on waterproof matches, I’ve had to face reality: I’ll always be in recovery. The little girl who feared Armageddon inhabits me still. But now that I’ve stopped trying to deny she exists, she isn’t as anxious. And neither am I.