Britni de la Cretaz

While this is not about my or White people’s feelings, this is about White people’s violence. As White people in this country, it’s on us to dismantle White supremacy. Both the problem and the solution lie with us. This involves talking to other White people in our communities, having hard and uncomfortable conversations, examining and confronting our own privilege.

So after years of feeling incredibly conflicted about the topic of my leg hair because FUCK YOUR PATRIARCHAL BEAUTY STANDARDS, it came to be winter.

“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.

Weddings can be anxiety-inducing and filled with dread for those of us that don’t drink. Attending weddings as a sober person can often feel lonely and about as fun as having dental work without novocain.

The first trimester is not normal. The first trimester is hell. The first trimester is vomiting in trash cans, falling asleep sitting up, sore breasts, perpetual nausea, hella strong food aversions, extreme mood swings, and crying because your partner ate your taco; all while not looking or feeling pregnant.

Bring something that makes you feel safe. I brought my blankie. It was so comforting to be able to go up to my room after a terrible day of being in immense emotional pain and curl up with my blanket.

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.

Street harassment is a global problem. Wherever you go, marginalized people have to deal with verbal abuse, harassment, and violence simply for entering public space.

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 hair makes me happy and I dye it for my own enjoyment— not for yours. I mean, that’s cool if you happen to like it, too, but you don’t have to tell me about it. You can keep it to yourself, write it in your dream journal, take it to your grave. I don’t care what you do with it, I just know that I don’t need to know about it.