My Only Sunshine: A Story for Domestic Abuse Survivors

by Shannon Jump

I will always be a victim. Kind of like how an addict is always an addict, their addiction the result of something bigger than them, something out of their control.

Just as an addict makes a choice each time they slip the heroin-laced needle into their veins, snort the white shit up their nose, or replace the water in their tumbler with a liter of vodka, I chose to stick by my despicable husband, which did nothing more than enable him to further neglect the tenets of societal norms and overall basic human decency.

I am a domestic abuse and marital rape survivor.

Now, all I wanted was for the pain to stop, to go back to where it all started and un-meet him.

I am nothing. I am worthless. Everything is broken.

I’d always loved the sound of the rain, the liquid pellets recoiling off the ground, reminding me that sometimes God needs a good cry too. I’m not even sure I believe in God, but I remember my mom saying that to me once. She used to say that the claps of thunder were the sounds of God bowling. “He must have bowled a strike!” she’d say when the thunder was particularly loud. I’d been afraid of storms as a little girl, and while I’d be hard-pressed to imagine Him finding time for such a leisurely activity, the sentiment of the memory nearly brought a smile to my face. I missed my mom and almost thought to call her, but I’d never find the words to explain the hurt penetrating my heart. She wouldn’t understand, she’d never been in my shoes.

When you're a naive—and probably somewhat self-centered—eighteen-year-old female, I guess sometimes the small details don't seem to matter, even when they should.

Forgiveness doesn't change the past, but it can enhance the future. It can shed light on what are otherwise some of our darkest days.

Forgiving an unfaithful partner is a daunting task—and those words don’t even do it justice. It’s heartbreaking in a way that can’t be explained unless you’ve experienced it. Some days you wonder why the hell you didn't kick them to the curb the second it happened. Other days you're convinced you were the reason the infidelity happened in the first place, that there’s something wrong with you. That you’re not pretty enough, thin enough or simply nothing special—easily replaceable.

It's incredible what manipulation can do to a person's mind, the things you can be convinced to believe.

Sometimes when you're focused on moving forward, it's simply too painful to turn and look back.

Sometimes I wished I had it in me to be the heartless one.

I think if you were to ask any battered woman, she would be able to recall the exact moment when her partner first crossed the line between abuse to assault. Most likely, she wishes she could forget that moment but more importantly, she wishes it never happened. It's a defining moment in her life, one she knows will leave her with no more than two options: stay or go. Live or die.

I didn't feel important enough to be there, to take up their time.

Sorry would never erase the damage that had been done.

But when it was just me, by myself and lost in my own thoughts, it felt strange to just be. I found myself growing fond of the quiet, taking more time to appreciate the silence.

I broke him. This is my fault.

Always make sure to state the name of your attacker.

Find a natural way to state your location.

Keep your attacker talking, keep them distracted.

Separate yourself from the attacker and find a phone to call for help.

Those fucking vows hung over my head for years.

What I was too naive to understand at the time is that there’s a difference between making marriage work because you genuinely loved and respected one another and making marriage work because a piece of paper and a guilty conscience told you that you were supposed to.

I had never imagined I’d find myself in a relationship with an addict. Sometimes the fact that I did surprises me more than the fact that he was physically abusive.

he’d pursued me and made me feel special. It makes me wonder if Nathan wasn’t the only one with an addiction—maybe I had one too.

I am nothing.

I am worthless.

I had vowed to love my husband in sickness and in health but all I could think about was how badly I just wanted to take every one of those fucking words back. I didn’t want to be the wife of an addict. I didn’t want to be his wife anymore.

What had I done to deserve this life, other than love a broken man?