If My Daughter's Anxiety Had A Face, I Would Punch It

Dear Anxiety That Plagues My Daughter,

It’s time you and I sat down and had a little talk. I’ve refrained from sharing what I really think of you for several years now, but I’m done playing nice. You have wrapped your tentacles around and through my child’s psyche, even convincing her that you are her. It’s a sneaky little game you’ve concocted here, and I want you to know that I see what you’re trying to do.

Oh, yes, I see right through you. You are a fraud. You are charlatan. You are a stupid, lying liarface.

My mom taught me that it’s not polite to use vulgar language, but you are a total rat bastard shitstain. She also taught me that it’s not nice to say you hate someone, but I do. I hate you. I hate you with every fiber of my being.

Of course, I can’t tell you this directly because you live in my child’s brain. And because you’re so good at making her think that your voice is her voice, she’d take it personally if I let these thoughts fly directly at you.

And maybe you genuinely think you’re trying to protect her. Maybe you’re delusional enough to believe that when you convince her not to do things she really wants to do that you are somehow doing her a service.

That’s what you tell her, isn’t it? You tell her that you’ll keep her safe. You tell her that if she listens to you, bad things won’t happen to her. You point out every time she does listen to you and withdraws from her life, “See? You listened to me, and you were okay. Next time, don’t even question it. Just let me take the wheel. I’ll guide us to safety.”

No, you don’t have her best interest in mind. You’re a totalitarian tyrant, using mind games and propaganda to try to control what she does. You try to squash all dissent from inside her brain. You don’t ever let her get too comfortable, because, god forbid, she get to live her life without you whispering your lies in her ear all the time.

I hate you because you make me feel helpless. I do what I can do from the outside to separate you from her, but you know full well that you have the advantage inside there, don’t you? I know it, too, mothereffer.

You know what I feel like when I see you working my daughter? I feel like Molly Weasley in the Deathly Hallows, when she points her wand at Bellatrix Lestrange and says, “NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH.” Why can’t you just stay away from her? Why won’t you leave her alone? She doesn’t need you. She doesn’t want you. Nobody wants you.

You’re a bully. That’s what you are. A big, ugly bully who tries to make my daughter feel weak and small and afraid.

She’s not, by the way. You might succeed in making her feel afraid sometimes, but she’s a thousand times more badass than you could ever hope to be.

And she’s learning. She’s learning how to handle you, how to keep you at bay more often than not, how to build up her inner army to overthrow you every time you try to take reins. She is learning to harness that fierce imagination you’ve managed to turn against her, but which you know deep down has the power to destroy you.

And she has an army on the outside too. She has her therapist who is helping to supply her with necessary armaments. She has her father, siblings, and friends who stand by her side to cheer her on and who will fight alongside her when necessary. She has the option of medication waiting in the wings, a reserve corps in case you prove to be a more potent foe than we anticipated.

And she has me. You’ve never seen anything like me — a pissed off mama bear who will stop at nothing to end your fascist regime in my child’s head.

And whom, may I ask, do you have? You think you’re so big, but you have nobody. You are nobody. You have no place here.

I know you think you’re here to stay, but you’ve got another thing coming, pal. You may win some battles, but you will not win this war. She is onto you. She is getting stronger and building up her skills every day, and one of these days she will own you.

Are you scared? You should be. Prepare to get a taste of your own medicine, buddy.

She’s coming for you.

We’re coming for you.

Sincerely,

A Fed Up Mama Who Has Had Enough of Your Bullshit