Trapped, Betrayed, and Free—My Story of Abuse, Shunning, and Survival

Dedication

This story is for every survivor who has been silenced, for those still trapped in cycles of abuse, and for those who are just beginning to find their way out. It is for Pete, who saw me when no one else did. I wish you could see me today. And it is for the woman I used to be—the one who thought faith alone could save her. I now know that freedom comes not from obedience, but from truth.

Background and Entry Into the Faith

I grew up around Jehovah’s Witnesses, but in the early years, our family’s involvement was more on the periphery. We weren’t the type to attend every meeting or go door-to-door regularly. That changed when my father was diagnosed with lung cancer. Facing mortality, he turned to the faith more seriously, and our family followed suit. We started attending meetings regularly, and the organization became a bigger part of our lives. Even with that increased involvement, I wouldn’t say I fully understood or embraced it.

I had a troubled childhood—one where stability often felt just out of reach. When I was 16, my parents decided to send me to live with my older sister, who was already a baptized Jehovah’s Witness. That was the moment my immersion into the faith truly began. With her, it wasn’t just about attending an occasional meeting—it was a full commitment. Three times a week, we sat through meetings at the Kingdom Hall. We woke up early for field service, knocking on doors, offering Watchtower magazines, and talking about Jehovah’s promises. It wasn’t something I had chosen for myself, but when you’re in an environment where everyone around you believes so deeply, it starts to feel like the only truth.

Despite all of that, I still left after high school. I wanted to live my own life, but the tether to the organization was never fully severed. Members of the congregation would frequently visit me at work, reminding me how much they missed me and how I was always welcome back. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that sense of belonging—of being wanted—was already working its way into my heart.

It wasn’t until I went through a controlling relationship that I found myself really drawn back in. I was young and lost, trying to find my footing in adulthood. The organization offered answers, structure, and certainty, and I clung to it. At 20, I moved from Montana to Seattle, hoping for a fresh start. My studies in the faith continued, and by 1988, I was married. The following year, I made the ultimate commitment—I was baptized as a Jehovah’s Witness. On that same day, so was my husband. I had convinced myself that this was the life I was supposed to live, and I fully embraced it.

My JW teacher had a beautiful marriage, one filled with love, respect, and mutual devotion to Jehovah. I admired it so much that it shaped the way I viewed relationships and marriage. I believed that if we both committed to the faith, if we both put Jehovah first, then everything else would fall into place. What I didn’t know then was that faith alone wouldn’t be enough to save me from what was coming.

The Abusive Relationship

When I arrived in Seattle, I rented a small basement apartment from a sister in the congregation. It felt safe—like I was part of something bigger than myself. My future husband was working on the shower in that apartment when we met, and for years, we joked that when people asked where we met, we’d say, “In the shower!” At first, I dated his roommate, but when that didn’t work out, he swooped in. I didn’t know what a healthy relationship looked like, so despite the constant fighting, I convinced myself it was normal. All couples fight, I thought. And we were Jehovah’s Witnesses—as long as we put Jehovah first, we could work through anything.

In 1988, we got married. I was 21. A year later, in 1989, we were baptized together as Jehovah’s Witnesses. I had convinced myself that this was the ultimate fresh start. We had made a covenant—not just to each other, but to Jehovah. I believed that as long as we both kept our faith, Jehovah would bless our marriage. But that belief kept me trapped.

A month after our wedding, the first hit came. We had gone to bed angry after an argument. Without warning, he sat up, raised his arm, and brought his fist down—full force—onto my thigh. He was 6’5", I was 5’4". The impact sent a shockwave of pain through my body, and the next morning, I could barely put weight on my leg. The bruise was enormous. When he saw me limping, he cried. He swore it would never happen again. And so the cycle began.

At first, it was bruises hidden under clothes. Then, it was control over every inch of my life.

• If I rearranged the furniture, I’d wake up to find everything put back where he wanted it.
• He would jerk the steering wheel while I was driving, pulling us toward oncoming traffic just to watch me panic.
• He destroyed things that were special to me—just to remind me that nothing in my life belonged to me.
• He abused me in front of our children—then told them, “Look at what Mommy is making me do.”

And I stayed. Because Jehovah hates divorce.

Going to the Elders for Help

I desperately wanted to believe him when he said it was a one-time mistake, but it wasn't. The abuse intensified, becoming more frequent, more controlling, and harder to ignore. Deep down, I knew something was wrong, but in the Jehovah’s Witness community, marriage was considered sacred, and leaving wasn’t an option. I did what I had been taught—turned to the elders for guidance.

I approached them individually, pleading for support. Instead of help, their responses crushed me:

• "Be a better wife."
• "What did you do to provoke him?"
• "We've had other sisters show up at the Kingdom Hall with black eyes. What makes you think you're any different?"

That last comment shattered me. They admitted openly that I wasn't the first—that other women had appeared battered and bruised, yet the elders had chosen to send them home, instructing them to try harder. I left those meetings feeling utterly defeated, convinced my unhappiness was my own fault. If my marriage was failing, it must be due to my lack of faithfulness. So I stayed. I prayed harder, submitted more, tried to embody the obedient wife they insisted Jehovah desired. But none of it stopped the abuse.

The Escalation

Over the years, his control grew more extreme and calculated. Every aspect of our home fell under his command. If I rearranged furniture or moved a picture, I'd wake the next morning to find everything restored to his preference, erasing my choices completely.

There were glaring warning signs I should have recognized sooner:

• He would grab the steering wheel as I drove, yanking us toward oncoming traffic to gauge my reaction.
• He deliberately destroyed cherished items, reminding me nothing in my life truly belonged to me.
• He physically abused me in front of our children, then cruelly turned to them, claiming, "Look what Mommy made me do."
• Piece by piece, I was losing myself, clinging to the belief that if I remained faithful, Jehovah would eventually fix everything.

Pregnancy and a Temporary Escape

Even pregnancy didn't halt the violence. At seven months pregnant, he threw me against a wall. My mother saw the fear in my eyes, despite my silence, and encouraged me to join my parents in Texas for my nephew's birth. I went, and for a precious month, I was away from him.

I should have stayed away, but he followed me. When he arrived to take me back, I complied. The elders reprimanded him—not for harming me, but for driving without a license. In their eyes, the bruises and violence didn't matter; only adherence to rules did. I pointed out their neglect, stating clearly, "If you'd supported me, I wouldn't have left, and he wouldn't have driven." Momentarily, they acknowledged their failure. Yet nothing changed.

Losing Myself

The abuse continued, control tightened. One night, after a particularly vicious fight, I crawled into bed with my children, praying he wouldn’t hit me in front of them. One day, while briefly running an errand, a chilling thought crossed my mind: What if I don’t make it home before him? What if something happens?

The realization shocked me. "That’s crazy," I thought. "That’s how victims of domestic violence feel." For the first time, I allowed myself to consider that perhaps—just perhaps—I was indeed a victim. But I wasn't ready to leave yet. I still didn't understand clearly, nor did I have the courage or resources to escape.

The Beginning of the End

By this point, fear dictated my every move. I tiptoed around his moods, carefully choosing my words. But nothing prepared me for the night he threatened to kill us.

It was March, shortly after the memorial. My children were five and three, and I was temporarily employed with Kelly Services, finding solace in my work. But tensions at home were worsening. That evening, I accidentally burned dinner—a simple mistake that triggered his rage.

"You're such a piece of sh*t," he spat. I turned my focus to bathing our children, desperate for a distraction. Yet even there, he found fault, shoving me aside and mocking, "You can't even bathe our kids right."

I retreated to the bedroom, mechanically folding laundry to calm myself. Then he stormed in, grabbed a lamp, and smashed it violently on the floor. With chilling calmness, he said, "You're so miserable? Fine. Tomorrow, I'll get a gun and kill you, me, and the kids." He punched the mirror, sending shards flying dangerously close to my three-year-old son standing in the closet.

Something inside me snapped. Without hesitation, I grabbed my son and daughter and fled. My daughter cried, "I don't have my shoes!" but I reassured her gently, "It's okay, baby."

I didn't know where I was headed, only that I couldn't stay.

Going to the Elder’s House

I drove to the home of an elder—a man I considered a friend, someone who was supposed to offer guidance and compassion. Shaking, I stood at his door, my children clinging to me. He listened silently as I explained the terrifying threats, the shattered mirror, my desperate escape.

I expected help, empathy, or at least support. Instead, he folded his arms and coldly asked, "Where are you going to go?"

The simplicity of his question felt like a physical blow. I had no answer. No money for a hotel, no family nearby, nowhere safe to retreat. In that devastating moment, I realized he wouldn't help. He wouldn't call another congregation member or offer guidance. He certainly wouldn’t reassure me I'd done the right thing.

I left his house, feeling more isolated and abandoned than ever. I frantically started making phone calls. My husband's brother was my only option. I pleaded with my sister-in-law to let us stay for the night, but my brother-in-law hesitated. He knew my husband's violence and didn't want trouble. Thankfully, my sister-in-law stepped in and insisted. That night, we slept under their roof.

The next morning, my mother-in-law called. “What happened?” she asked.

I told her everything—the threats, the violence, the fear. She sighed deeply, then said something chilling: “I had hoped this wouldn’t happen.” She knew. She had always known. Because she had lived it too—abuse at the hands of her own husband. And like me, she stayed until the day she couldn't take it anymore, ending her life to escape his control. For the next few weeks, I was homeless. With two young children, we bounced from couch to couch, surviving on the temporary kindness of others.

Manipulation and Another Betrayal

Even after finding a job, I wasn't free. Friends urged me to return to him:

• “He’s such a great guy.”
• “Work on your marriage.”
• “Think about how hard this is for him.”

They didn’t understand. They hadn’t seen my countless attempts to fix the unfixable. Desperation led me to make another mistake—I let him move back in. He promised everything would change:

• “I’ll be different.”
• “I can't live without you and the kids.”
• “Jehovah hates divorce.”

I believed him. Years of control had convinced me I couldn't survive alone. I escaped—only to be pulled back in.

Betrayed by the Elders, Saved by the System

Nothing got better. The violence escalated; the control tightened. In desperation, I returned to the elders, pleading for permission to leave, hoping they'd finally protect me. Instead, they shamed me:

“You’re twisting scriptures to suit your situation.”

They denied my abuse, emphasizing obedience over survival. That moment changed me. They weren't Jehovah’s representatives—they were just men protecting their rules, not me. For the first time, I knew clearly: I'd have to save myself.

The Day He Went to Jail

A few months later, as I was rebuilding stability, I returned home to an empty house. The phone rang. It was the elder who'd previously refused to help.

“Your husband's in jail. Your children are with the neighbor.”

Confusion turned to panic. Unbeknownst to me, my husband had been reported for domestic violence after I fled. Given a choice by the judge—anger management or jail—he arrogantly chose jail. Three years.

Rather than relief, I panicked. Deeply trauma-bonded, I drank myself numb. At 2 AM, I called my boss, unable to face work. Expecting the worst, her kindness surprised me:

“What happened?” she asked gently, then insisted firmly, “This won't happen again. Call EAP now.”

For the first time, someone pointed me toward real help—and I took it.

Finally Getting Help

At my first counseling session, I felt broken and lost. After hearing my story, the counselor leaned forward:

“Shannon, this is domestic violence.”

Those words shattered years of denial. This wasn't marital trouble—it was abuse. She referred me to Pete, a domestic violence specialist. His kindness changed my life. For the first time, someone saw me and validated my pain. Slowly, I began to see myself again.

Cast Out

Despite his incarceration, I wasn't truly free. Jehovah’s Witness doctrine allowed divorce only for adultery—not abuse. If I stayed faithful, the congregation expected me to forgive and accept my abuser back. Desperate, I saw only one way out: adultery. Not about love or desire, but survival. I confessed, knowing disfellowshipping would free me from their control. And it worked.

Disfellowshipping meant total abandonment. Family, friends—everyone would shun me completely. Yet, amid profound loss, I felt relief. I'd lost everything I'd been taught to value but reclaimed something infinitely more important: myself.

I didn't attend the meeting announcing my disfellowshipping—I didn't need to. I'd known it was coming. Still, the betrayal stung deeply. My abuser faced no consequences, yet I was punished for trying to survive. In protecting the institution over victims, the elders showed their true priorities:

• A violent man: forgivable.
• A woman fighting to survive: unforgivable.

In my small, bare apartment, I felt lost but free. Looking upward, I finally dared to ask: “Jehovah, are you real? And if so, why is this okay?” No answer—only silence. For the first time, I wasn't sure anyone was listening.

Hoping to prevent others’ suffering, I wrote to Bethel, urging better education for elders about domestic violence. Their response crushed me: “You’re just angry about being disfellowshipped and seeking revenge.” I realized then—they would never change.

I moved forward, found love again, and felt safe. But my abuser, still supported by the elders, remained protected. I faced ongoing harassment. Pete’s unexpected death left me devastated, and in grief, my faith drew me back. Seeking reinstatement, elders interrogated me harshly, focusing on past sins rather than my trauma. Though they let me back, something within me had irreparably broken.

Returning to the Kingdom Hall triggered severe PTSD. Assigned to the same congregation of my abuse, painful memories resurfaced. I experienced shunning for my appearance, labeled rebellious simply for my bold hairstyle. My husband and I saw clearly the organization's lack of genuine love.

When my stepson was murdered, the congregation offered no compassion. Disillusioned, we began to research. Discovering lies, cover-ups, and cruelty, we knew we couldn't return. We chose not to officially disassociate. They no longer had power over us. We were free.

Final Reflections

To those still trapped:

• Your abuse is real and not your fault.
• You're not alone; help and hope exist beyond those walls.
• Shunning is a weapon but doesn’t have to break you.

To the organization protecting abusers: You failed me, but you will not break me. Now, I speak for those who can't. Shunning is about control and silencing truth. The Watchtower pretends protection but permits abuse. Today, I share my story—not from anger, but from truth. If you're trapped, know you are not alone. There is life and hope beyond the Watchtower. When you're ready, you won't walk alone.

I speak for those still silenced—for the ones too afraid to leave.