From Silence to Strength: Rick’s Story

From the moment I opened my eyes, it was just my mom and me against the world. As far back as I can remember, she was my universe — my constant companion, my protector, and the only parent I truly knew. I “had a dad,” of course, but I don’t recall meeting him until my fifth birthday. That day should have been a celebration, but when I threw my arms wide to soak up the spotlight, his anger exploded. He spanked me and scolded me for wanting attention. My mom was nowhere to be found — her silence echoing louder than his blows.

After that, I learned early that love came with rules I didn’t understand. When a coworker once remarked that I “walked like a girl,” my mom marched me into our living room and made me parade back and forth under her unblinking gaze until I looked “proper.” Shame settled into my bones as I tiptoed through those hours — too young to name what I felt, but haunted by it forever.

The love I grew up with was transactional. As long as I behaved, stayed quiet, and did everything “right,” I was rewarded with material things — new clothes, a toy, a meal out. But emotionally, I was empty. I learned that affection had to be earned and that comfort was conditional. If I dared to complain or express sadness, I wasn’t a hurting child — I was a “bad son.” So I grew up lonely, unseen, and quietly starving for love that didn’t need to be bought.

Moments of praise were rarer still, and when they came, they arrived with a catch. If someone called me cute or smart, her smile would be warm in front of them. But as soon as we were alone, she’d whisper, “Don’t let it go to your head. They say it for me, not for you.” That single sentence planted seeds of doubt that would sprout into loneliness. I stopped trusting my own worth and started second-guessing every compliment.

In the quiet hours before dawn, I took on the role of caretaker. I learned to cook my own meals, scrub my clothes, and even press my mom’s uniform for work. When loneliness crept in and I confessed it to her, she’d shake her head and say, “You’re not alone,” as if denial could erase the hollow ache inside me. So I folded my feelings into neat parcels and carried them alone, like a secret burden.

I longed for my mom to cheer me on at recitals, marimba concerts, or choir performances, but her classroom always came first. I’d stand backstage, clutching my instrument, scanning the crowd for her face — and she never appeared. When I earned a scholarship in high school, she only showed up after a family friend shamed her into it. She even lost my award in her luggage on a trip, shrugging it off like an old T-shirt.

Over the years, her words began to twist reality itself. She’d promise things I looked forward to, then later swear she’d never said them. I started to question my own memory — only in adulthood did I discover a name for it: gaslighting. Surviving those moments made me strong, but also scarred.

Yet there was a light in the darkness. My aunt — Mom’s sister — saw me clearly and cheered for me without hesitation. She offered encouragement that felt like sunshine after years of clouds. Because of her, I discovered a spark of joy that no amount of shame could extinguish.

Slowly, I gathered the courage to carve out my own path. I joined the swim team, excelled in school, and found friends who cheered the loudest when I succeeded. I realized that applause from others could only carry me so far; real confidence had to come from within.

Hi, I’m Rick Ganuza — survivor, husband, and the voice behind The Rift with Rick. For a long time, I built a life around keeping the peace, even when it cost me myself. I grew up in the shadow of narcissistic abuse — learning to over-perform and under-need, to read a room while disappearing inside it.

Telling the truth — out loud, in my own words — has been my way back.

I didn’t know my father, and my mother’s love came with conditions. I didn’t have the words then, but I do now: narcissistic personality disorder can make a child disappear in plain sight. A therapist finally urged me to step back for my own safety. While I was gone, my mother got sick and passed away. My family blamed me and closed the door. The grief and confusion nearly pulled me under. I didn’t want to die; I just couldn’t see how to live with that much rejection.

Healing began when I finally listened to my inner voice and forgave the little boy I’d been. I let go of the confusion my mother’s words had sewn into me and learned to honor my own feelings. I stopped being who I’d been told to be and started becoming who I was meant to be.

If you’ve ever felt unseen, silenced, or ashamed, know this: your story is yours alone. Forgive the child who did their best with what they had. Trust your inner voice, release the doubt, and step boldly into the life you were always meant to lead.