Your name gets thrown around a lot in our current social clime.


Everything gives people anxiety now. We never heard your name 20 years ago, and now you’re one of the most frequently discussed health disorders in history.

Some people swear you don’t exist, and that’s how I know you’re the damn devil.

People who don’t necessarily feel you don’t seem to grasp—no, some don’t even believe—that you warrant any merit.

That’s because to them, you’re just that.

A feeling.

For those that simply “feel anxiety” in a situational context, you can be stomached and put away until that situation is resolved.

A typical relationship with you is long-distance—you come and go like a distant parent. You pop up from time to time, stay for the weekend, rearrange the silverware drawer, and then you’re gone.

Irritating, but no real harm done.

But those that feel you in your most effective form know you’re a completely different monster.

For those that suffer your presence as a disorder, you’re an abusive spouse.

You never leave.

You loom over them, waiting for any and every opportunity to take their joy—any sign of strife, and you jump out from the back of their minds and cave their chests in with a quick, crushing blow.

You ruin everything.

For my wife, you moved in the day she received a phone call from her mom—her best friend, and daily confidante—letting her know doctors had found a 24-pound tumor on one of her ovaries.

You destroyed her peace again when her parents sat us down and explained the cancer her mom had fought off had come back a second time.

Then there was the day our son suddenly went limp, turned blue in her arms, eyes rolling back and tongue locked to the roof of his mouth. We had no idea David could ever be seizure prone before that night.

She will never forget that visual, or that feeling of helplessness.

And I will never forgive you for taking advantage of that.

She relives it every time she hears him cough or gasp, which he does frequently and for no reason. He thinks it’s funny, but I watch you grip her throat every single time.

I know damn well I’m bound to fight against you every day for the rest of my life . . .

And I will.

I will never give up on my wife. Come hell or high water, I will see to it she reclaims her life from your grip one day.

I wish you’d make it easier on all of us and just leave.

My biggest problem with you is that I can’t rationalize you away. I can’t simply say to my wife, who’s curled up in the fetal position, shaking and crying, trying to dodge your incoming blows, “There’s nothing to worry about.”

She knows that. She’s already spent too much time screaming those same words at herself in her own head.

I can’t outwit you with logic—you don’t care about logic.

You don’t care about anything.

I have grown such disdain for you that you almost convinced me to start lying to my wife.

To keep headaches to myself.

To willfully keep myself from admitting to any off-putting feeling or notion, as a means of preventing you from grabbing ahold of her in front of me.

To keep myself in a perpetual state of Nothing to see here—don’t worry, be happy.

My hatred for you almost overrides my love for her at times.


There’s no way to explain to her that it’s YOU I’m frustrated with when she’s locked up in worry about nothing. I’m angry at YOU for existing, not at her for succumbing to your lying, intention-thieving schemes.

I hate you with everything in me.

You’re officially on notice, Anxiety. You may have the upper hand for now, but I’m working against you every day—and I love her harder than you’ll ever hit her.

You’ll never find yourself welcome in our home, and every time you try to “teach her a lesson,” I’m going to be there, working against you.

Every time you make her feel like there’s nothing she can do, I’m going to be there, reminding her of everything she’s already done.

When you try to convince her she’s unworthy, I’m going to remind her she’s absolutely priceless.

Every time you convince her tragedy is certain, I’m going to take her hand and walk with her through whatever lies you’re telling, reminding her she’s not alone.

You will never have another conversation with her that I am not a part of.

I’m on to you—I see you coming now.

You might think you have control, that you can shut my wife down at your own whim and will.

Given the amount of time you’ve had to become the monster you are, I imagine you think you’ve got a stronger hold on her than I do.

The flaw in your logic is that I love her.

And love always wins.

Originally published on the author’s Facebook page.

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Posted by Hurricane Heffners on Sunday, November 22, 2020

Andrew Heffner

Andrew Heffner lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin with his wife Trista and their two kids, Allayna and David. When he isn’t guest writing for Trista’s family blog Hurricane Heffners, he works as a Product Designer for an international power tool company. In the infinitesimal amount of free time he has, he enjoys family time first – then “trying to golf”, hunting, barbeque, and craft beer. He is a dedicated husband and dad, a master coffee brewer, has over 20 episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse memorized. Feel free to follow his and his family’s writing at