Shanon is a writer, journalist, activist and filmmaker. Her compelling personal essays appear in digital publications including Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping, ELLE, Marie Claire and more. Shanon has also been featured on HuffPost Live, The Wall Street Journal, Real Simple and an upcoming docuseries for Reelz TV. As a military brat, she has lived everywhere from Cuba to California. A young divorcee and victim of domestic abuse, she decided to study clinical mental health counseling and combine her love for activism and writing to create films that advocate for survivors of domestic violence and sexual assault.
As a Story Terrace writer, Shanon provides professional ghostwriting services to capture customers’ life stories through carefully crafted anecdotes. Below is an anecdote of her own. Get in touch today to work with her!
Sitting on the bench outside the courtroom, it became obvious my case was an inconvenience. I sat silently, passively listening to the conversations of jurors passing by on their way to lunch.
“I am so glad we got a break, I don’t even know why we are here, “ one woman said.
“I doubt he hit her,” replied her companion, “She’s obviously not afraid of him.”
It hurt me to hear those words. I stated the facts, unaware I should have given a performance worthy of an Oscar on the witness stand. Nothing had gone according to plan. After my husband was arrested, I was busy picking up the pieces of my life. I trusted the detectives to handle the investigation, but the case was unraveling during trial.
Even with visible scars on my body, the blurry photos of my injuries on the day of the attack cast doubt amongst the jurors. How hard was it to take photos? The detectives had even failed to get that part of the investigation right. I knew what they were thinking: my husband was petite and visually unintimidating. We were equal in size, yet he was still capable of hurting me.
What could I say to justify their forced absence from work and time away from their loved ones? That my husband was small in stature, but full of anger? That he had demons I had yet to understand? That I had no idea of the depths of his darkness until he held a knife to my throat one morning? That he had violently attacked me weeks earlier, prompting my decision to end our marriage? After I told him I wanted a divorce, he went berserk. This time, I called the cops.
That is how we ended up here.