Not being seen has always been a thread woven through my life. The most recent reminder came in my most recent Psychoanalytic Based Psychotherapy class for my PsyD program. After hours spent on death and grief, I felt myself unraveling. During the break, as everyone else headed to dinner, I slipped away to cry alone, unnoticed. When I finally joined them, I was silent, numb, my face frozen in pain. But no one saw me. No one cared to ask if I was okay. Am I that hard to read? Or do I give off a vibe that says, “Leave me alone”?
It started even before I was born. My mother’s family turned their backs on her when she became pregnant with me, a child out of wedlock. They discarded her, and so, before I even took my first breath, I was cast aside.
My mother worked endlessly to provide for us, leaving me in the care of my grandmother, MamAmalia, who was kind but stretched herself too thin, always giving more to others than to her own family. It left me feeling invisible, a shadow in the corner. My father was kept at arm’s length, and I was all my mother had. I became her everything, her entire world, but even that felt more like a burden than a blessing. I was told I was special, but I was treated like I was nothing.
When my stepfather came into our lives, things seemed brighter for a moment. He was kind, and I thought I might finally be okay. But then my brother Frank was born, and once again, I became invisible. I wasn’t seen when my mother was taken away on a stretcher during her first hysterical episode. I wasn’t seen when an older cousin molested me. I wasn’t seen when I was trying to fend for myself, nearly burning down the apartment just to heat a tortilla because I was starving. I wasn’t seen when I sat, shivering and desperate, punished for hours in a bathtub, eventually having to relieve myself in the water. Then I was beat, naked and soaked with a thick traditional Mexican belt. I learned that day what it meant to be punished for existing.
When my brother Al was born with a heart condition, our family’s struggles grew. He survived two open-heart surgeries before his first birthday, and my little sister Mary arrived in the midst of this chaos. My godmother, the one person who had shown me love, took her own life, and I lost not only her but the cousin who had stolen my innocence. It was a twisted, bittersweet relief.
Life was always moving forward, but I felt left behind, unseen. When Al had his stroke at the age of 3 one day while we were playing, I watched the life drain from his eyes. I screamed for my mother, and everything changed. In that moment, I learned that my needs, my pain, were secondary. I had to be strong because everyone else needed me to be. I had to hide. I had to disappear.
Our home was filled with tension, with fighting, with absence. My stepdad was in and out working, my brother was always at the hospital, and my mother was worn to the bone always staying with Al at the hospitals. I was left in the care of relatives who didn’t want me, who saw me as an obligation, and I learned it was better not to be seen at all.
When Al finally came back home, he was different, damaged, and so was my mother. She became someone else entirely, and so did I. I tried to be good, but my anger festered. I lashed out at school, hurting others with words, with drawings of death and violence, and eventually, they held an intervention. I was labeled bad, a bully, and in that moment, I learned that the world saw me as something to be discarded.
I reinvented myself at a new school, tried to be someone different, someone likable, but life would tear me down later. I started at a new school. I say “I” but more appropriately he started at a new school. Ren was left behind and Ricky came into existence. I didn’t know how to be but I knew how not to be Rene. This person was liked, had friends, and was sensitive. I could go over to my friends’ homes and experience what life could have been like. Even if it was only momentarily. Then, again, we moved, this time to Colonia in Oxnard, CA, to a very rough neighborhood. We moved to rough neighborhoods, and I had to become tough and ruthless just to survive. Ricky was gone. At home, I took on more responsibilities than any child should. I learned that the only way to be loved was to be useful, to sacrifice myself for others. It became my role, my identity.
As I grew older, I found escape in drugs, in alcohol, in the thrill of rebellion. I became a master of hiding, of manipulating, of pretending to be what others wanted. I joined the Marine Corps, hoping to find purpose, but I ended up feeling more trapped than ever. When I finally left, I was broken, empty, drifting through life without meaning.
I’ve made countless mistakes. Hurt people I loved. Betrayed myself over and over again. I numbed the pain with substances, with lies, with fleeting moments of pleasure. I hit rock bottom, ended up incarcerated, and it felt like confirmation that I was worthless, that I didn’t matter.
But then, amidst the darkness, a glimmer of light. It was so simple, a smile, a warm “hi,” a moment of genuine kindness. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt seen.
That moment gave me hope. It reminded me that maybe, just maybe, I’m not destined to remain invisible. I’ve worked hard to rebuild, to heal, to be better. I’ve sought therapy, joined men’s groups, and faced my demons, but it’s a constant battle. There are still days when I want to disappear, when the weight of my past threatens to pull me under.
But I’m still here, fighting. I’m still hoping that one day, I’ll be seen—not for what I’ve done, or for how much I can give, but simply for who I am. Maybe I’ll find that I matter. Maybe, just maybe, someone will see me and say, “You’re enough,” and that time I’ll finally believe it.
