I feel like I’ve done more than my share of soul searching. I’ve done more than my share of “who am I?” thinking. Yet here I am.

I am the product of rape. I am the daughter of a rapist. I am a rapist.

I am an American. I am violent. I am violence. I am white. I am the perpetrator of white violence in the form of “Nuh uh” but not really greater violence. I have literally only ever been in fights with other white people.

I am a student of history and literature. I’ve read a lot. So what?

I am educated and rich. So what?

I am mean and selfish. I am the problem with the system as I give and give and give. I cannot give enough because my compatriots give nothing.

I feel like lately I am angry with myself all the god damn time. I don’t even know why. Because I cheated on my husband? I didn’t cheat on him, most of the time, I told him before I did it. The only cheating I did was when I spanked two people when I shouldn’t have. That’s not what the colloquial thinks of and that’s ok.