Narrative Essay About Pain And Grief

I am stuck in a world of thoughts, distracted with emotions, as my pen bleeds words of sorrow. Pain and grief I seek no more as I wish to escape my surroundings evermore. -- Jose Enciso

On Tuesday, March 19, 1985, a horrific accident occurred as a fire broke out on Second and “J” Street in San Bernardino. Overnight, it instantly killed my mother, stepfather, brother, and two sisters. Because I tragically lost my entire family, it transitioned and transformed me into the person that I am today. I had spent many nights at my Aunt Joanna’s house, my mom’s sister because my stepfather, Andy, use to beat me immensely. He beat me to the point where he put me in a coma twice. Even though I survived the beatings and death, I still spent the rest of my childhood and adolescent years in a

troubled home surrounded by darkness. Growing up, I can remember spending countless nights crying as I tasted the salt from tears while questioning my very existence. Shortly after my mother’s passing, My Aunt Joanna was awarded full custody of me by a judge of the San Bernardino Superior Court. She then became my sole legal guardian and raised me until I became 18. Unfortunately, I was locked up physically emotionally, and spiritually as a kid in a world of chaos.
Growing up, I can remember being hit on several occasions for no apparent reason.

At times, I was hit so badly that welts appeared from a leather belt or metal hanger, which was used to make their branding marks amongst my flesh. In addition, Aunt Joanna did not stop until her eyes were filled with great satisfaction, by such imprints. The pain was so intolerable that I was unable to sleep at night. I spent endless weeks in a room as if I were a prisoner living separate quarters of her home. Many times, I was kept home instead of attending school, just to hide bruises from school officials that she placed upon me.

Furthermore, I went to bed hungry plenty of time as my stomach growled for food, especially when Aunt Joanna was upset, or she just felt like being a “bitch” towards me. Later, the conditions of abuse worsened because she adopted a drug addiction, and her personality became fiercer, especially when she yearned for her drugs. When she came down from her Meth high, she did not like to be bothered and was annoyed with everyone. Invariably, she inflicted her anger towards me through physical pain that was beyond normal punishment as she whipped and whaled on

me.
One time, she punched me so hard in my stomach that I instantly lost my breath and fell to the ground. She then proceeded to kick the “shit” out me as if I was her opponent in the octagon at a UFC fight. Lost out of her mind, she often reminded and told me never to disrespect her or her children at any time, and she did not hesitate to beat me if I got out of hand. “Look, motherfucker, don’t make me kick your fuckin ass, and you better never tell anyone about me,” she often said to me. Throughout the years, these words were often repeated, and she embedded them into my mind to instill fear into me. Instead, of taking it out on her owns kids by yelling or beating on them, it was easier for her to unleash her anger of fiery on me. I was the step-kid of the family. Emotionally, I became a wreck. I soon became that quiet kid as I kept to myself. Most often, I was scared to speak out of silence or say something that made her upset. I felt like I was in hell, but I never understood why she abused me physically, emotionally, and spiritually while growing up since I was her sister’s child.
Despite my troubled upbringing, I thank God that I am not on drugs or in prison because I could have easily been persuaded into these types of lifestyles. Moreover, it would be easy to blame my Aunt Joann if I had chosen either path to follow. Even though she abused me physically and emotionally, she never broke my spirit to live. Now that I am a father of two beautiful daughters, I have not raised a hand towards my children, nor have I expressed rage. I cannot imagine my life without them. I remind them constantly of how of how much I love them, by being a good father, and they are the reason I look forward to each day. Moreover, I don’t speak to them about some of the abuse that I faced as a kid because I don‘t want to be haunted or reminded of my past. In the end, I would never want my children to experience any of the pain I went through, nor be saddened at any point with their emotions, especially at a young age in their lives.