Britni de la Cretaz

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.

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.

It’s been seven years since I left him. Most days he doesn’t cross my mind. I forget that he existed. The things that he put me through are filed away somewhere that never gets opened. I’ve done the work of understanding what I went through, of forgiving him for the abuse, of moving on with my life.

"Go ahead, call me a bitch. It’s one of the nicest things you could say about me."

The first time I remember learning what a safeword was, I was sitting in my college dorm, devouring blogs about kink and BDSM. It all seemed so foreign to me, a teenager who couldn’t imagine real people doing any of the taboo things these blogs talked about.

Being both a mother and an activist can be tricky sometimes. Often, they seem to be at odds with each other. I can’t drop everything to show up for a protest, or meeting, because I have to find childcare, and my kid goes to bed at 6:30 PM. I have to consider my child’s safety when I make the decision to engage in a protest, or a direct action, even if she isn’t in attendance with me.

What I learned about myself is that I am full of crap, through and through. I also learned that I absolutely hated that fraudulent person — it didn't feel good to be a hypocrite. It didn't feel good to manipulate the people around me. And it didn't feel good to know that no one knew me for who I really was, including myself.

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.