Britni de la Cretaz

I want my child to be able to self-determine. What that means to me is that they know they have options besides the “default” one that’s plastered all over their TV screens, and that they always know that.

There’s nothing wrong with moms who decide to go for a stereotypical “mom cut.” If they like it, or if it makes their lives easier, that’s fantastic. Personally, my hair after I had children remained just as important to me as it was before I had them. My hair has always been a huge part of my identity — candy-colored, funky, and so totally me.

When I first got sober, I was resistant to a lot of the things I was hearing in 12-step communities and recovery circles. I’ve always been a feminist and much of the rhetoric I was hearing seemed to go against everything I stood for.

This ad is the furthest thing from funny. It’s not humor, it’s not satire, it’s just plain distasteful. Good humor punches up. But there’s no humor to be found in an issue that, according to the Center For Disease Control, killed 47,055 people in 2014. Of those over 47,000 people that died of a drug overdose, opiates — like heroin — were involved in 61% of those deaths.

I’ve been writing about stigmatized topics on the Internet for almost 10 years, so it’s never a surprise to me when I get pushback or face trolling or abuse for my opinions. I am a woman on the Internet, after all. Men love to tell me how stupid I am on a regular basis.

“My name is Britni, and I’m an alcoholic.” I’ve said those words more times than I can count and they’re always met with nods of recognition and assurances of “me too.” I’m also a survivor of rape and sexual assault, and it’s a big part of my addiction story.

I know you’re probably wondering how that happened, so I’m going to tell you. (You’re welcome.)

The first sign that something was wrong was the weirdly watery discharge. I'd never had vaginal discharge that looked like that before, and considering I'd just finished my period, the large-ish amount was confusing to me. But everything else felt fine. So I put a pantyliner on and went about my life, thinking it would stop soon.

In part, I didn't want kids because I knew that I couldn't even take care of myself, let alone someone else.

I’m working on an essay about the time I was raped my freshman year of college. For the very first time, I’m naming my perpetrator. Even if it’s only his first name, there’s still so much power in it.

It’s bad enough when I’m street harassed out by myself — I feel vulnerable and deciding how to respond can be hard. But it gets really complicated when I’m harassed and with my child.