꧁ 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒶 𝒹𝑜𝓁𝓁. ❣︎ ꧂
I Am Not a Doll – And You Never Had the Right to Build a Fantasy Around Me
I am Human !
i am Woman!
I am Someone’s daughter, friend, maybe Someone’s Mother.
Not your fantasy.
Not your fix for powerlessness.
Not your property.
Not your toy.
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From Old Men’s Fantasy to Young Men’s Rage
Before I ever had a say, I was already in their story.
Old men looked at my body—my small frame, my flat chest, my childlike silhouette—
and their eyes lit up with something evil.
They didn’t see a woman.
They saw an object for their darkest desires.
They tried to sell me.
Push me toward gangbangs.
Make me believe it was “just how things are.”
They called it love. They called it experience.
But it was a sickness—projected onto my body like it was theirs to break.
So I changed.
I had surgery. I made my breasts bigger—
not to feel beautiful, but to escape.
To stop looking like a child in their eyes.
To become invisible to that kind of predator.
And it worked—partly.
The old men lost interest.
But the problems didn’t stop.
They evolved.
Suddenly, it was boys—eighteen, nineteen—
angry when I wouldn’t flirt back.
Upset that I didn’t want to “educate” them.
Shocked that I wouldn’t kneel for their pleasure like they imagined women should.
And society?
Even other women said:
“But he’s so handsome!”
“But he’s athletic, young, and sweet!”
“He’s just a little younger—what’s the problem?”
The problem is: I’m not here to raise or train a partner.
And “just a little younger” is still not my responsibility to endure.
But it doesn’t matter how I say no.
Because to men, my “no” is not part of the fantasy.
It ruins the script they wrote before they ever met me.
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Fantasy vs. Reality: You Made Me What You Needed Me to Be
Men loved me when I was silent.
When I had no boundaries.
When I looked like a cartoon of submission.
But the moment I said:
“I am not your girl.”
“I do not owe you.”
“I don’t want you.”
They crumbled.
They weren’t in love with me.
They were in love with the control they thought they had.
I could wear a paper bag and they’d still project.
Because it’s not about what I wear.
It’s not about how I look.
It’s about the permission patriarchy gave them to dehumanize me.
Even in Germany, the fantasy continues.
There, it’s the married women men fantasize about—
because “maybe her husband doesn’t know.”
Because maybe, just maybe, they don’t have to use a condom.
It’s never about connection.
It’s about access.
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Weaponizing Norah Vincent and the Sperm Fantasy
And now?
They weaponize even the people who tried to expose this.
Men misquote Norah Vincent—saying she ended her life because women were cruel to her.
But that’s not what she said.
She said living as a man—being in male spaces—was so painful and emotionally starved
that it broke her.
She saw the emptiness patriarchy forces on boys.
She saw the pressure to dominate, suppress, disconnect.
And it nearly killed her before it finally did.
But men don’t want to hear that part.
They twist her story to frame themselves as victims of women—again.
Just like they twist every act of intimacy into proof of ownership.
In Poland, there’s a widespread belief:
If a woman doesn’t swallow sperm, she’s not serious about the relationship.
They want her on her knees, tongue out, eyes up.
To perform submission—not for pleasure, but as proof of obedience.
That’s not sex.
That’s a ritual of power.
And when we say no?
They act like we’re defective.
Cold. Difficult. Angry.
As if the problem isn’t their dehumanizing expectation—
but our refusal to smile through it.
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( Norah Vincent was an American journalist and writer. She identified as a lesbian and spent over a year living as a man to better understand gender roles and emotional dynamics.
Her book Self-Made Man was not about proving men suffer more. It was about showing how both men and women are shaped—and often harmed—by societal expectations.
Norah struggled deeply with mental health, and after years of trying to heal, she died by assisted suicide in Switzerland.
Her story deserves care and honesty. It’s not proof that “women are the problem.” It’s proof that pain runs deeper than roles—and that empathy matters.)
From Childhood Conditioning to Adult Objectification
It starts early.
Dresses for baby girls are shorter.
Shorts are tighter.
While boys get room to move, girls get taught to be pretty.
To be still.
To give that uncle a kiss even if it feels wrong.
To be polite no matter what.
And if a girl refuses?
It’s the girl who’s shamed.
We’re taught to serve.
Taught to accommodate.
Taught to sacrifice until we forget what our own bodies feel like.
And then—when the consequences show up—
when we’re abused, or hypersexualized, or emotionally crushed—
we’re told: “You provoked it.”
No, we didn’t.
We Are Not Dolls. We Are Not Props. We Are Not Prey.
We are not something for you to use.
To quote.
To silence.
To destroy.
We are human.
We are still standing.
We are done shrinking.
So wear the ribbon.
Speak the truth.
Unlearn the silence.
Together.
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What the Green Ribbon Means
The green ribbon is more than fabric.
It’s a quiet agreement. A signal. A promise.
Worn around your wrist—or your child’s—it means:
“I stand for other women.”
“If you see me or my child in danger, you are allowed to step in.”
“We protect each other. We do not stay silent anymore.”
Too many of us freeze when something feels wrong.
We’re afraid to misread a situation.
We’re scared to overstep.
We don’t know if we’re allowed to react.
So here’s one idea to break that silence—
Let the green ribbon be a symbol of consent to protect.
Green like a green light:
You are invited to respond.
You are welcome to step in.
Your care is wanted.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s not interfering.
It’s love.
It’s trust.
It’s solidarity.
Tie a green ribbon—on your wrist, your child’s, or anywhere visible.
Post a photo. Doesn’t matter what fabric it is—green means “go.”
Go protect. Go support. Go act.
Use the hashtag #GreenRibbonLadies
Tag this blog if you share it.
Let’s turn solidarity into something visible.
This is not decoration. It’s permission.
We protect each other now.
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