The Shocking Truth About Love: Breaking the Cycle of Fear and Abuse

Understanding the Roots of Fearful-Avoidant Attachment and Its Impact

Oct 19, 2024

Artwork by Moken Marsai | www.mawuart.com

Trigger Warning: This essay includes discussions of domestic violence, including emotional and physical abuse. Some readers may find the content distressing. Please prioritise your wellbeing while reading.

Family Dynamics and Romantic Failures

What happens when, after years of believing you were a romantic unlucky in love, the emotionally unavailable one is actually you? Part one of this essay discussed my revelation of having a fearful-avoidant attachment style. Though I yearned for intimacy, my fear of being hurt or rejected caused me to push people away when they got too close. This pattern led to a series of unsuccessful relationships. I introduced how my upbringing with an emotionally unstable parent and the absence of examples of healthy relationships skewed my perspective on love.

My Father's Influence on Love and Fear

To understand my attachment style, I had to confront my complicated relationship with my father and how his influence led me to associate love with fear. In this essay, I will delve deeper into my early relationship with my father and why it made it difficult for me to maintain stable relationships in adulthood.

What I am sharing today has only been shared with my mother and therapist. Though time has passed, remnants of the pain still remain. The moon represents your emotional self, instincts, and inner world in astrology. As a Cancer moon, I am highly intuitive and feel things deeply. Cancer is a water sign ruled by the moon itself, which makes this an emotionally potent placement. When a parent is both loved and feared, vulnerability is not an option.

Silencing My Emotions and the Weight of Sensitivity

For as long as I can remember, I've felt emotions intensely. Whenever I expressed my feelings, whether through tears or words, my family—my father, mother, and older sisters—would quickly tell me that I was too sensitive. My mother and sisters believed they were helping me cope by teaching me to toughen up. My father's approach was much harsher, making me feel ashamed of how I felt.

Whenever I was teary-eyed in his presence, he would laugh in my face. If my tears were in response to something he did or said, he would take the opportunity to educate me on how I was overreacting. I went through that process enough times to start believing he was right and my feelings were wrong. To this day, when a negative feeling comes up, I second-guess myself.

In new relationships, I avoided bringing up sensitive topics out of fear that my significant other may decide that I'm more trouble than I'm worth, opting to be with a woman who didn't have messy emotions to contend with. Instead of accepting that my emotions were tools of discernment worthy of my attention, I saw them as inconvenient and a form of weakness. I no longer needed anyone to tell me I was too sensitive; I had internalised it. Every time I experienced any emotions outside of the permissible ones, I bottled them up. When I cried, it was often accompanied by shame, even if I was the only one in the room. Anger was the most challenging emotion for me because there never seemed to be a right (or safe) way to express it, so it festered.

My family would label any show of anger, sadness, or even slight discomfort as spoiled, rude, selfish, or disrespectful. I believed that if I could only learn how not to feel, I could finally be seen as a good daughter, sister, and partner, and my life would finally be at peace. I wish I could hold my younger self in my arms and tell her that her feelings were completely valid and that her reaction to the surrounding circumstances was appropriate and justified. Emotional security and home were not synonymous. Navigating my father's emotions was like playing Russian roulette, where one misstep could have dire consequences. I remember being an anxious child, always on the lookout, never knowing which version of my father I would encounter. When he was happy, he would (literally) shout it from the rooftops. When he was sad, he swallowed up the whole world with his despair. And when he was angry, his rage became violent. My ability to attune to the emotions of others was forged in those days when it was a matter of survival.

"Han eena lion mout tek time draw it out." - Jamaican Proverb
Translation: If your hand is in the lion's mouth, take your time to remove it.
This means that when you're in a difficult or dangerous situation, you should proceed with caution and patience to avoid making things worse.

Despite being terrified of my father, I yearned for his love and affection. At times, I hated how much I wanted his validation, and I held on to those rare moments when it felt like everything would be alright in our world. On his good days, I would get a glimmer of what things could be. We used to take impromptu car rides around Kingston. He worked in construction, so he would take me to the more affluent neighbourhoods, and we would admire the beautiful houses. On those days, I could ignore the shaky foundation that awaited us at home. The fact that I was no longer invisible was all that mattered. He would take me to class every Saturday morning when I began swimming lessons. We always stopped at Burger King for French toast before heading to class. To this day, Burger King french toast reminds me of those mornings with my dad. I clung to the 10% of good times to comfort myself through the 90% of the bad. Like the numerous evenings when he forgot to pick me up from school. Or when he was late for another prize-giving ceremony. I was an expert at "shaking it off" by this time. But behind the brave facade was a little girl who believed she did not matter. This belief carried into my romantic life, where I tried to be the ideal girlfriend by prioritising my partner's needs over my own in an attempt to prove my worthiness of love.

A Violent Revelation That Changed Everything

I was nine when my view of my father was irrevocably changed. It was a typical Saturday evening, just after the Sabbath had ended, and I was immersed in a Nancy Drew book. Suddenly, the thunderous boom of my father's voice erupted from the kitchen, yanking me out of the world of fantasy and right into a terrifying reality. My three-year-old nephew had ridden his tricycle into the kitchen, and my father began reprimanding him. My pregnant sister, who didn't seem to fear my father like the rest of us, lept to defend her son. The conflict ensued; I dared not leave my twin bed to investigate; otherwise, I might get caught in the crossfire of the contention brewing in the other room. Though I was on the other side of the house, I felt terror wash over me. They were both hot-tempered, and fights between them were common, but it didn't make it easier. I was frozen in silence, bracing for impact. My sister was strong-willed and defiant, never afraid to stand up to my father, setting the stage for an inevitable clash.

When my sister got pregnant at nineteen, it rocked my family. My father was a prideful man who cared deeply what others thought of him, everyone except us. He was more concerned with preserving the image of a picture-perfect family than confronting the issues that resulted in my sister becoming a teen mother. As her belly grew, so did the tensions in our household, and by the time she was on her second pregnancy, we were at a breaking point. My father could never control my sister like he did the rest of us, and that's what he hated the most about her. How dare she defy him in his own home? How dare she speak back to him after she besmirched the family name? How dare she not cower in fear at the sound of his voice? With our housekeeper away for the weekend, he could finally act on his most primal instincts.

The shouting quickly escalated into blood-curdling screams. My sister's wails of agony echoed through the house as my father's violent rage took over. My mother begged him to have mercy, but the sounds of his unrelenting blows continued as he beat her with the wrought iron tricycle. My heart pounded; I was still too afraid to move, not even to close my bedroom door to drown out the sound of my sister's cries. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that a neighbour would intervene and end this nightmare. My sister finally broke free and sprinted past my open bedroom door. She locked herself in her room and threatened to call the authorities. My father pounded on her door, demanding to be let in, while she screamed insults at him from behind the door. Despite everything she had just gone through, she still had some fight left in her. I watched helplessly as he tried to coax her out of her room, his tone now more measured, possibly due to her threats.

Once the chaos settled, I remember lying there, anchored in place, clutching my book as a lifeline. Even though the storm had passed, I couldn't bring myself to move, almost as if I believed that if I stayed perfectly still, I could remain invisible. I remained in that spot for what felt like an eternity, trying to understand what had just happened, fighting back the tears, fearing their existence would upset him further. I wondered if anyone outside had heard the scene unfold. Had they done what I wished I dared to do and called for help?

Later that night, when my father entered my room, my heart raced as he knelt by my bed. I immediately knew what he expected of me by his calm, almost lighthearted demeanour. The way that he could transition seamlessly from rage demon to doting father was disorienting. I pictured myself telling him off like my sister did, but I knew I would choke on the words before they ever left my mouth. I wouldn't be able to bring myself to do that for decades. Instead, when he asked, I politely assured him that I was fine and accepted the plate of mashed potatoes he had brought me as if nothing had happened. I remember trying my best to hold it together, dreading one wrong move would set another series of atrocities in motion.

From then on, I couldn't accept any kindness or care my father expressed as anything more than a fallacy. I had borne witness to his duplicitous nature, and soon, my distrust for him evolved into distrusting all men. When he left the room, I remained in that spot, wondering if my sister and her baby were okay. I was overwhelmed with a sense of hopelessness. I knew I couldn't have done anything, even if my fear hadn't held me in a chokehold. How could I, a little girl, do anything more than accept the truth that lay before me? That night, my hope for a loving father-daughter relationship was crushed. I knew without a doubt that my father's love was conditional, tethered to how well we played the roles he demanded of us. I wanted to be brave like my sister. She and I had the same fighting spirit. But I knew I never wanted what happened that night to be my fate, so I suppressed it. We all had our roles to play, and mine was to be invisible—the one who never caused trouble, the one who made sure not to provoke his anger, the one who knew her place.

By morning, we realised my sister had fled the house in the middle of the night, seeking refuge on a park bench on a cold, uncertain night. I could only imagine how scared she was, pregnant and utterly alone. Despite the dangers that lurked in the dead of night, the streets of Kingston still felt safer to her than her own home. It took years before I realised that my family dynamic was not normal. I learned what true love was through my platonic friendships and my evolving relationship with my mother. She is the only one I can really talk openly with about how living with my father affected me over the years. I once thought she was cowardly for not standing up to him like my sister. I now understand that she felt incapable of supporting us without his help. However, she became aware of her strength in her own time. Recently, she apologised for not doing more to protect us, and I felt my heart become a little more whole. Our response to fear was to freeze, which felt safe. Before she was a mother and a wife, she was a woman navigating a life with no rule book. Contrary to what I once believed, my sister wasn't any stronger or braver than us; her response to fear was simply different. Same fear, different font.

My relationship with my father is still complicated. Seven years ago, he walked out on our family. The family has healed in some remarkable ways in those years. My struggle with mental illness has given me perspective on my father's erratic behaviour. He was raised on violence and continued the cycle of abuse that had been passed down through our family line for generations. One that I, unfortunately, inherited. I, too, harboured a deep-seated anger within me, much like his, and although I could mainly suppress it, at times, it would erupt to the surface. I once became so irate. I slapped a classmate across her face. I was consumed by remorse and shame when I realised what I had done. It was like an out-of-body experience, starkly contrasting my timid persona, but I wondered if that was who I truly was. A bad person pretending to be good, just like I'd summed him up to be. Up until then, I only knew two ways to deal with anger: suppression or violence. It was when a boyfriend expressed how he left after I hit him for the first time that I finally stopped. I didn't want to hurt anyone I loved. Even though I didn't know a better way to express my emotions, I knew the cycle had to end with me.

Breaking the Cycle with Emotional Healing

The traits I've inherited from my father have allowed me to gain deeper insights into how he became the man he is. While I have compassion for him, I acknowledge that having a close relationship with him will never be an option for me. I still grapple with the fact that I will never have the loving father-daughter relationship I crave, but it does get easier.

With this new perspective on my emotional landscape, it's easy to identify why I was stuck in the push-pull dynamic in my past relationships. As a child, I wasn't given opportunities to process my feelings, so when they came up in my romantic relationships, I didn't have the tools to regulate them. My response when my feelings felt overwhelming was to detach from the source of my distress as I had done my entire life. It was the only way I knew how to gain control. I had no frame of reference on how to approach conflict constructively, so when my significant other would share their concerns, I perceived it as rejection. That perception led me to either lash out or shut down. Thus perpetuating the same chaotic dynamic I was raised in.

Redefining Love and Reclaiming Myself

Once I learned that my overwhelming emotions were not a personal failure but a result of my nervous system's response to trauma from childhood. I no longer felt shame regarding my emotions. I have acquired new skills in emotional regulation. For example, instead of lashing out, when I begin to experience anger, I step away from the situation to calm down. I journal to slow down my thoughts, which helps me approach my feelings more mindfully. I speak up for myself and trust that friends and family won't abandon me if I share something that makes them uncomfortable. I still experience all the same feelings when things happen, but the difference is that I have the tools to manage them. Understanding my experiences and fearful-avoidant attachment style has helped me approach love more gracefully. This revelation has not lifted my guardedness towards romantic love, but it presents a path to healing that may lead to me being open to a loving partnership. I've been working on creating emotional security that isn't dependent on external validation. I had to commit to loving myself deeply and unconditionally and finally release my father.

Have you ever felt trapped by past fears? Share this with someone who needs to hear this message of breaking free

Renouncing My Father's Name as Self-Liberation

As a girl, I found solace in water, drawing baths to soak away my troubles. The call of the water brought me to Portland, Jamaica. There, I spent my mornings by the sea in deep contemplation, shedding parts of my identity once vital to my survival. I had worn these masks for so long that I had forgotten they weren't mine. It was by those shores that I became myself again—no longer my father's daughter but the daughter of the sea. Names carry deep meanings, and I questioned what it meant to keep a name that connected me to someone who had caused me heartache. The choice was clear, so at 33, I legally changed my name to Moken Marsai, crafted with love and intention—a symbol of my sovereignty.

Moken—Daughter of the sea. Water is often regarded as the primordial element from which all life emerges, symbolising the womb of creation. Inspired by the Moken people, a nomadic sea tribe who live by the motto, "The ocean is our universe," this name holds aspects of my birth name, Monique Kennedy, paying homage to my former self's sacrifices to birth this new identity.
Marsai—A very spiritual person who often relies on intuition for decision-making and royalty. It acknowledges my divinity and connection with God and the universe.

I remember the day that I walked into the Registrar's Office to pick up the official documents. I clutched the name declaration to my chest, filled with pride for what I had just done. For the first time in my life, I felt that I was guiding my destiny. It was the perfect culmination of the journey I had been on; the burdens of my past began to melt away, and I was born again. My name change celebrated the woman I had always been and the woman I was yet to become. Changing my name was an emancipation from the role my father had assigned me. I made an irrevocable decision that conveyed that I was no longer an actor on his stage. I was convinced that it would make him angry or reject me further, but for once, I didn't care how he felt. I will be honest. I hoped it would hurt him when I renounced his name, but as the universe would have it, he didn't care. My father's indifference cemented my conviction to cultivate an unshakable sense of self-worth.

I finally got to tell him off the way I wished I had on that fateful night. I wasn't polite; I used every expletive I could find, cursed him out in raw chaw Jamaican patois, didn't hold back, let my vengeance out, using my words as daggers, jabbing at every flaw he had; I was merciless. All the anger I had bottled up throughout my childhood was released. Later, he told my mother that it was so bad that he dared not recount the words I said. He tried to reach out, but I blocked him. I was done. He had enough chances and wouldn't get another to break my heart.

My mother often uttered the proverb "Han eena lion mout tek time draw it out" when I wanted to stand up for myself. She thought she was protecting me from his wrath or from him withdrawing financial support. That saying played a significant role in minimising myself, caring more about his feelings than mine. But when I sent that voice note with my unfiltered truth, I was no longer the little girl powerless to her circumstances. I was the lion, and he was the one who needed to tread lightly.

The Journey Back to Self

My new name has given me a clean slate. Each time I introduce myself to someone and they inquire about the meaning behind it, I am given the opportunity to affirm my new identity. It reminds me of my decision to liberate myself from the past that once defined me, an acknowledgement of the power I wield over my life. It set in motion a radical shift; with one decision, a cosmic remembrance began to occur. Dreams I had once tucked away came alive in my soul once again. Fears of being seen were irradicated; I delighted in my expansion, no longer shrinking from the entirety of who I was meant to be.

I've entered the realm of unfettered self-expression, from writing poems and music to creating new businesses. I perform original songs in rooms filled with strangers, spend time making art in my studio, and share my raw feelings in this blog.

Growing up, I eagerly sought my father's approval. In my teenage years and early adulthood, my focus shifted towards seeking affirmation from romantic partners. I've realised that the most profound act of love and the key to true fulfilment is choosing myself. I'm now tending to my needs with the love and care I once longed for, and I know authentic love is nothing to be feared. I've expanded my view of love, and decentering romance has given me more time to invest in friendships and family. Even on my loneliest days, I know I'm deeply cared for.