Purple Vanilla World

There’s a kind of violence women carry that doesn’t leave bruises.

It doesn’t get reported. It doesn’t even get named half the time. But it builds quietly. Over years, decades, generations, centuries.

Until suddenly you’re standing in the mirror wondering how the hell you got so far away from yourself.

When I say the men who hurt us, I don’t mean one man. I mean masculinity as a system. A culture. A fog. Misogyny. Patriarchy. Something we were born into and taught to survive inside, even if it meant we had to lose parts of ourselves to do it.

We were taught that being wanted was the same as being loved. That being quiet was the same as being kind. That if we didn’t ask for too much, maybe we’d finally be enough.

And then, when we snapped–because they kept pushing after we said no, because we finally stopped smiling–they called us crazy.

“She’s a lot.”
“She’s emotional.”
“Watch out, don’t get on her bad side.”

They didn’t ask why we were upset. They just blamed us for making a scene.

What they didn’t see were the years behind our voices shaking. The hundreds of times we said yes when we wanted to scream no. The thousands of moments we tried to be likable instead of real. The parts of us that panicked at the idea of disappointing anyone, even when we were the ones being hurt.

They didn’t see how many times we gaslit ourselves into staying quiet.

The fog lives inside of us. Internalized misogyny. Passed down through chromosomes, cells, and atoms.

The fog lives deep inside of me.

No man has ever hit me.
But I’ve hit myself.

I’ve turned the invisible violence inward and then externalized it on my body.

That’s what happens when you’re raised in a world where masculinity is power and femininity is a problem to solve. You learn to blame yourself. You start thinking your sadness is manipulative. Your jealousy is dangerous. Your anger makes you “a bitch.” You get so good at hiding, you forget what it’s like to be whole.

And here’s what’s even harder to admit:

Some of the harm didn’t come from men directly: it came from me, trying to earn their love.

And it came from other women, who had survived the same double bind.

I’ve stayed in relationships where I planned everything alone. Where I cried beside a partner who didn’t notice. Where my body became the only offering I had left. Where I convinced myself that a cup of coffee left on the counter was a love letter. (It’s here. He must still care.)

I’ve told myself I was too needy. Too emotional. Too intense.
But I’ve also been lied to. Betrayed. Ignored.
So… what’s too much, exactly?

Some men only see women in two ways: the Madonna or the Whore.
Respect her or desire her. Love her or fuck her. Never both.

I tried to be both. Sweet and sexy. Loyal and low-cut. Wife and wild.
It never worked. I was always too much of one, not enough of the other.

So I started disappearing.

I shrank my needs. I stayed silent. I stopped asking for touch. For time. For help. I watched myself become invisible in relationships with men who once promised to cherish me.

And maybe the most painful part wasn’t that they forgot me.

It’s that I forgot myself first.

But I’m not writing this as a victim story. I’m writing it as a wake-up call—to myself, to other women, to anyone who has quietly endured.

Because I’m done minimizing. I’m done shrinking.

I want to be loved the way I love. With all of it.
The sensitivity, the fire, the hunger, the wildness. The part of me that still cries when I feel lonely in a room full of people. The part of me that has questions. That needs reassurance. That won’t be shamed for needing more than crumbs.

I want someone who doesn’t flinch at the fullness of me.

And until I find that, I’ll keep writing.

I’ll keep loving the girl inside me who learned to hide.
And I’ll keep honoring the woman I’ve become—loud, emotional, unruly, alive.

And I’ll keep empowering other women to do the same.

Join me in this quest.

Let them call us crazy.

They should be afraid of what we look like when we are unafraid.

by Thalia Graves

Purple Vanilla World, 2025