Why I Have A HUGE Problem Being Told I Have White Privilege 

*Trigger Warning* I discuss incidents of sexual assault and rape. If you are triggered by this type of behavior I urge you to proceed with caution or stop reading entirely. 

There’s no denying I am a white female, but what I fail to see is how being a white female means I have “white privilege.”

Privilege * privuh-lij *

  1. a right, immunity, or benefit enjoyed only by a person beyond the advantages of most: the privileges of the very rich.
  2. a special right, immunity, or exemption granted to persons in authority or office to free them from certain obligations or liabilities: the privilege of a senator to speak in Congress without danger of a libel suit.
  3. a grant to an individual, corporation, etc., of a special right or immunity, under certain conditions.

I could keep going, but I think this will do. I am not immune to shit. I have not benefited from any kind of special rights. I’ve not been made to feel special in any way. 

I have, however, been made to feel ashamed for having these mythical rights and benefits.  

I have a French name as my first name and many people (for reasons I really don’t understand) think it’s a “black” name upon hearing it. I was teased by both the black and white kids. My maiden name is Spanish. I have not a drop of Hispanic blood in me. My biological father was adopted by a Hispanic family. Because of my white skin and Spanish last name, the Hispanic kids often tried to beat me up. You know, because I chose my last name. 

When I was sexually assaulted by my black friend’s father almost immediately after I turned 18, I wasn’t feeling very privileged. He got me drunk, took risqué photos of me, then laid me on a sleeping bag and groped and fondled me, telling me he wouldn’t fuck me because his cock would rip me in half, I still did not feel privileged. When he dropped me off three blocks away from my house, right in front of a drug dealer’s house, in the middle of the night, and forced me to French kiss him before he let me out of the car, I still didn’t feel privileged. I know, I know, I’m so ungrateful. 

When I joined the Navy and got to my first command I was greeted by sighs of disappointment because I was not a Latina woman (remember, Spanish last name, white skin). My Hispanic chief went out of his way to treat me like shit, tell the improper way to do things, then wait for an officer to catch me and yell at me, the “white privilege” was so profound. 

When I was raped by several black men, one Hispanic man, and one white man, all of whom were supposed to be my shipmates, my brothers, I felt so fucking privileged that of all the white women on board that ship they chose to fuck me without my permission. And when I broke down and cut myself and got shipped off for several psych evals, chose to report them, and was told, by a white man, an officer, that I deserved it, Then was swiftly kicked out of the military under medical reasons while those “men” walked down the corridors of my former command free and clear, yeah I was reaping all the benefits of my “white privilege.”

But wait, there’s more!

I felt so God damned privileged when a handsome, mixed raced man conned me into becoming a stripper, becoming his bitch, becoming my pimp then would tell me I’m nothing but a privileged white bitch living in a fantasy world right before he’d rape me. This happened repeatedly. He especially enjoyed fucking my mouth. He’d force me to suck his dick for an hour sometimes. Yes I was definitely put in my privileged place. 

Now, because I was kicked out of the military well before my two year mark, I don’t even get the benefit of the full G.I. Bill. Employers look at me and see someone who came no where near fulfilling their four year commitment. Because I married and had children with a military man I had to quit two of my jobs and have years of unemployment in between jobs, I can’t find a decent job to save my life. And yes, I fill out the optional ethnic and gender part of the application. On paper I look unreliable, but boy howdy my “white privilege” is swooping in and saving my pale ass.. Not!

“White privilege” might apply to the rich white schmucks, but it does not apply to me so I’d greatly appreciate it if you would stop judging me by my pigment impairment and stop assuming I have so many privileges at my fingertips. I am just a human being trying to survive in this fucked up world. 

Now if you’ll excuse my privileged white ass as I go to my nearest Panera Bread and grub with my equally privileged white female friend and shove food down our privileged faces as we scoff at those beneath us. 


Color the Stress Away

I love having adult coloring books and my husband got me a beautiful set of pastel pencils. They’re blend together really nicely, but the smudge really bad so I’ve learned I have to start in the top left corner and work my way to the bottom right corner. 


This is the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon from Game of Thrones. 


I spent a better part of my day working on this one page. I had to take many breaks to take care of, feed, and play with my boys, but I made sure I kept coming back to this. 


This is my favorite picture of my project. I love this half done look. I loved it so much I felt inspired to post it to my Instagram with a message:

As I continued to color I felt more and more relaxed. The only stress I felt was trying not to smudge my work. 

At this point I had to walk away to pick up my daughter from school which killed me a little because I was so close! But when I returned and got her settled with a snack I was able to finish it. 

I still have a lot of room for improvement on shading with color, but I think this looks really good and I’m quite pleased with it. 

Anxiety and its Complications

Having anxiety sucks. Managing it is exhausting and it often gets in the way of what would normally be a simple task. 

For example, I donate plasma regularly, however my anxiety makes it difficult because it sends my pulse racing for no reason and when I get my vitals taken my pulse is too high so I’m unable to donate that day. I feel a lot of weight on my shoulders when it comes to donating because sometimes the money I get from it is our next meal or diapers for my sons. If I can’t get it then we’re jumping through hoops and sacrificing that much more. 

Anxiety also makes being in public difficult. Large crowds, close proximity to strangers…no thanks. I’d rather stay home, in my pjs, talking to people on the Internet. I once left a coffee shop because a male stranger made polite  conversation with me. He wasn’t threatening in any way, but it was later in the evening and I was alone and everything began feeling sinister and I high-tailed it out of there ASAP. 

My anxiety has me expecting the worst possible scenario during the most mundane activities. I long to get away from my kids for just a few hours to enjoy a nice coffee shoppe or something new, but I can’t even enjoy myself because almost the instant I leave I envision the worst happening to my kids. Then when I come home and see everything is totally fine I get so mad because I couldn’t actually enjoy my time away and I more than likely cut my trip short for no reason. 

Anxiety can also manifest itself as a copious amount of energy. Last week at work I worked a double shift and inbetween my scheduled shifts I tried to donate. It didn’t work. When I returned to work I was moving and speaking quickly and acting kinda goofy, joking around more than usual and just being not quite my normal self. This may not sound like a problem, but I felt as though I was not in control of myself. I felt off balance and jumpy. I said some things (not mean things, just stuff not appropriate for the work place) and after I said them I seemed fine on the outside, laughing and brushing it off like no big deal, but inside I was screaming in terror, beating myself up for my stupidity, but it was like I was watching myself from the outside and unable to do anything to stop myself. 

It may seem like I was just having a good time, but when you’re not in control of yourself it’s a nightmare. 

Anxiety has kept me indoors and isolated. It is a constant battle and I believe it is the reason I’m always tired regardless of how much sleep I get. 

Why it’s Hard Being a Broken Adult

I wish I was a kid again so I could hug my mommy and daddy and believe that everything will be ok because they will keep me safe. I know that may sound ridiculous coming from a grown woman with children of her own, but that’s why it sucks being broken as an adult. I long to go back to adolescence so I can fix what broke, but it’s impossible. 

My biological father was in and out of the picture until I was about 13 when he went to prison. I don’t think he sent me any letters. If he did I threw them away. By 21 he was out of prison and he slowly started trying to rebuild some kind of relationship. By 22 I had my daughter whom he met. He came to her second birthday. Then he dropped off the face of the Earth. Again. I tried to find him, but instead I was contacted by a woman who said he tried to hook up with her before he disappeared on her. I had been searching for over a year at that point, but he disappeared on her only two weeks prior to her contacting me. I have very little love in my heart and absolutely no loyalty for him. 

My stepdad came into the picture when I was barely a toddler. I was told he and I used to have a good relationship, but my first memory of him set the tone for our future. I was three maybe four, I was ready for bed and I went to give him a hug and kiss goodnight, but he turned his head and pushed me away. The feeling of neglect and abandonment from my father figure only grew once my sister arrived. It was very clear she was his daughter and I was not. When my other siblings arrived I was just a waste of space. 

I’ll admit I despised my siblings at first, but when I saw that his own flesh and blood was not spared from his horrid temper, my heart softened. Still, they all lived a very different life from myself. I never felt Daddy’s love. I still don’t know what it feels like. 

My teenage years were spent thinking other men would give me the love I needed and wanted so desperately. If I were pretty and thin then I could get a handsome boyfriend and he would love me and I would finally be happy. Needless to say, that led me down an awful path. 

My mother did her very best. She loved all of her children (she still does), but the man she married after my father was/ a selfish, lazy, unambitious ass. She worked her ass of while he stayed home and claimed disability until it ran dry even though he was not as injured as he wanted others to believe. When he finally got a job it was one that was simple, made decent money, but he’d often call out. He has no idea how to be a responsible adult. He never sacrificed a damn thing and my mother sacrificed so much. Now she left him and my siblings think she is the bad guy and that their daddy is just super. It disgusts me. That man has caused me so much pain and misery. He has mentally and emotionally damaged me beyond repair, but he’s the one whose looked at as if he’s a victim and someone to be pitied and protected. Pathetic. 

My mother is now married to a great man, but it’s too late for me to fully appreciate it. It’s too late for me to call him “Daddy” and hug him and feel safe. I love him as the man who loves and married my mother, but I will most likely never call him “Dad.” 

My biological father abandoned me (twice), my stepdad never loved me (at least not when it really mattered), and my current stepdad came into the picture two decades too late. 

Now it’s up to me to fix what other people broke. I just want to be held and protected. I want the little girl that dwells deep within me to be healed. 

I’m so angry, afraid, wounded, and broken and I am unable to comfort my own children when they are sad. I am unable to keep my cool when they throw fits. I am passing on the destructive habits my stepdad passed to me. I don’t have the strength to keep fighting my own self every day.  I need help, but now I have no insurance and I can’t afford the help I need. 

Being a broken adult sucks because no one can fix you the way you wish they could. It’s up to you to pick yourself up even on the days you need to be and wish to be carried.