Personal Essay Sample: My Family

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Everyone likes to tell stories. They like to run their mouths about their lives. “Wow my mom is so cool,” or “My dad bought me the best phone money can afford!” On one hand of the scale there’s people with loving parents and on the other there’s people whose parents make them sick. I was a part of the latter. My family was just a broken home. It started with a crack in the ground. The tree above it slowly spread its roots creating more cracks till it fell. Maybe when my family cracked and shattered it was when my mom left and didn’t come back for the next 3 months. Or perhaps it was the sobs of my younger sister that drove my dad to turn to alcohol again. Another sob, another sip, but for me it all shattered when my older sister died. The golden child, center of attention, prim and proper older sister. Even if it wasn’t me who died that dry gloomy September day, I died with her. Not physically of course. I died in every way except physically. 

Even as the months passed nothing could help. I started skipping school. I simply walked out and never looked back. When I did go to school my classmates would go “Look who actually came to school! It must be raining gold bars next!” They thought they were funny but the only one they were amusing was themselves. They thought I would laugh with them but I never did. The last time I laughed was months ago. The only laughter I hear anymore is the ones on TV. The ones you hear after the self centered protagonist says a funny joke and giggles at their own joke, then invisible people watching them cackle too. Except I’m not hearing it on TV. I’m hearing it in real life. I can hear, no, I can feel the laughter. The sounds of people cackling not with me, but at me echo in my head as I sit on my sister's mattress. You know how they say that people slowly fall into insanity. I fell into it, but I didn’t fall slowly. I fell hard and broke all the bones in my body while I fell.

The broken bones from my fall still ache. No matter how much I take medicine or bandage them, they’re forever with me. They’re my battle scars. Battle scars from a war I’m losing. Scars made from the people that were supposed to nurse me back to health, my family. Every day we mark each other with more injuries. Every day is a new one. “Why didn’t you help your sister? Didn’t you know what was going on?!” “Don’t act like it’s our fault!? We’re not mind readers?” “I wish it had been you who’d died.” The last one hurt the most. The insult that hurt the most would be topped with another one the next day. My family was at war. We were all the commanders of our very own words, our soldiers. We were constantly fighting for territory in our shared house. 

Some days I’d sneak onto the roof through the old window in the bathroom that nobody even knew could open besides me. On those days I’d let myself reminisce. I'd reminisce about the days that my mother and father were still in love. I’d think about my older sister's horrible violin music she played at 9 AM sharp. Not to mention my younger sisters loud yells that sprouted from Roblox of all things. I’d dream about the times she actually bought something from the store for me instead of being a cheapskate. Then we would take the bus home and I’d point out every person who I thought was pretty or who looked like my math teacher to her. Although I was always pointing she only nodded in response. Now I understand that that was just the tip of the iceberg. A sign of her endless emptiness and loneliness. I regret it now. Maybe if I wasn’t so invested in the old man with the purple hat’s life and focused on my sister's life she would still be here playing her violin at 9 AM sharp. 

One day there was a bang on the door. I felt a chill go up my spine, an ominous feeling crept up in my stomach. They continued to knock, a clear indicator that they were not planning on leaving any time soon. I slowly turned the lock and swung the door open. “We’re here to take you to a much much better place,” were the first words muttered to me by my saviors. They had brought the right supplies to repair my broken heart and bones. Not too long after I found a happy family, a family that I could tell stories about. A family that I could say “my parents are the best!” After all, who doesn’t like a bit of likeness to other people?