The Fractured Foundation

Attachment begins in those early years of life, in the sense of safety and security that comes from knowing your caregivers are present, reliable, and attuned to your needs. But when my father had his first psychotic episode, that foundation cracked. What should have been a stable environment became unpredictable, chaotic, and frightening—a world where love and protection felt uncertain and conditional.

I was too young to understand what was happening, but I was old enough to feel it. I felt the tension in the air, the fear in my mother’s voice, the instability of a home where shoes stayed on and bags were packed, ready for an escape. My father, once a source of comfort and familiarity, became someone unpredictable and strange. His delusions, erratic behavior, and eventual disappearance left me confused and unmoored.

This was the first betrayal of attachment—the sudden realization that the people who are supposed to protect you might not always be able to. My father’s illness and absence disrupted the sense of safety I needed to form a secure attachment. When he left, it wasn’t just his physical presence that was gone; it was the emotional connection, the steady reassurance that he would be there for me no matter what.

My mother, overwhelmed with a newborn and the weight of a crumbling marriage, did her best to hold everything together. But her exhaustion and stress must have seeped into her interactions with me. Her attention, split between my needs and my sister’s, between managing our home and navigating the uncertainty of my father’s illness, may have felt inconsistent or strained. Even when she was present, the emotional toll she carried likely made it hard for her to provide the attunement I needed.

As a child, I learned to adapt to this unpredictability. I became hyper-aware of the emotional states of those around me, trying to read their moods, anticipate their needs, and adjust my behavior to maintain stability. It was a survival mechanism, a way to ensure I didn’t lose what little connection I had. But this hyper-vigilance came at a cost—it taught me that love and attention were conditional, that I had to work for them, earn them, or risk losing them altogether.

The betrayal of my father’s departure—his running away to another woman, his family’s denial of his illness—left a deeper imprint. It introduced the idea that love could be withdrawn, that people could leave when you needed them most. This fear of abandonment likely grew, shaping how I viewed relationships and intimacy. Trust became difficult, as did vulnerability. After all, if the people who were supposed to love and protect me could disappear, how could I trust anyone else to stay?

Even his eventual hospitalization, while necessary, reinforced the idea that attachment was fragile. My father’s return came with strings attached—a diagnosis, a set of conditions that dictated whether he could be part of our lives. It wasn’t the unconditional presence a child craves; it was a reminder of how tenuous our connection was.

This disruption in attachment likely carried into adulthood, manifesting as a blend of avoidance and ambivalence. On one hand, the fear of being hurt or abandoned might lead to emotional distance, a reluctance to rely on others or fully trust them. On the other, the craving for connection and validation could create a deep-seated need for reassurance, a reliance on external affirmation to feel secure.

These early experiences set the stage for an attachment style shaped by both longing and fear, by the simultaneous desire for closeness and the instinct to protect myself from being hurt.