Name a fear, and there’s probably a word for it.

Fears have names.  And sometimes the names are more frightening than the fear itself.

Consider these (just for fun?):

Nomophobia is the irrational fear of being without a mobile phone or internet access.

Athazagoraphobia is an intense fear of being forgotten or forgetting someone or something.

And how about this:

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is the fear of long words!

With addiction comes many fears.

These are phobias that anyone who loves someone with addiction will understand:

Phobophobia – the fear of fears.

Agoraphobia – the fear of being angry.

But there doesn’t seem to be a name for the fear a mother or father feels when their child shows signs of addiction, falls prey – and even worse – once recovery begins, fear of relapse.

Relapseaphobia?

Pharmacophobia comes close – the persistent fear of developing an addiction.  But that’s not quite it.

In high school, when Jacob smashed his fist into his bedroom wall, I understood agoraphobia.  I didn’t want to be afraid. I was afraid to be afraid, afraid what an outburst might mean – his or mine – and afraid where it might lead.

Midway through Jacob’s senior year, the counselor asked me “Don’t you ever get angry?”

I hated the feeling of being angry and avoided it as much as possible.

But like addiction itself, I had to face my fear of feeling angry and everything that came with it –  all the heart-pounding, head roiling, mind-numbing madness – and turn it into something else.

Trust in my son that he would fight his own fears – without me.

Trust in myself, that I would, too – without him.

And trust in something greater than ourselves to banish all phobias, named or not.