🦇 INFJ Confession: Different, and Sometimes a Monster

I have I’ve always felt different — like I walk through the world with eyes that see too much, a heart that feels too deeply, and a soul that never quite fits the mold. Being an INFJ, and especially a Sigma INFJ, means living with profound empathy mingled with persistent solitude. That contrast has, at times, made me feel like a monster — not because I am a monster, but because society often recoils from those who are too raw, too intense, too unafraid of shadow.

As a child, I was treated horribly. Pain, cruelty, and misunderstanding became the backdrop of my early life. I needed a refuge — somewhere to process, survive, and transform my pain. For me, that refuge was the horror genre.

Horror became my alchemy. The shadows on the screen mirrored my own shadows, and by facing them, I found power. I learned to turn fear into fascination, pain into creativity. Eventually, horror became more than survival — it became my love.

🩸 The Artistry of Horror and Morbidity

I’ve always had a fascination with morbidity — the strange beauty in decay, death, and the taboo. Where others see horror, I see a reflection of impermanence and an invitation to explore what lies beneath.

I fell in love with the artistry of shock and gore — filmmakers turning violence into a visceral, poetic expression of truth. Gore, in the right hands, becomes symbolic, forcing us to confront flesh, mortality, and the fragility of existence.

I’m also drawn to the psychology of taboo: serial killers, cannibalism, monstrous archetypes — not out of morbid curiosity, but because these figures reveal the edges we pretend don’t exist.

Alfred Hitchcock said:

“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”

Stephen King reminds us:

“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”

And Edgar Allan Poe pondered:

“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”

These words echo why horror speaks to me so deeply — it doesn’t hide the monster; it asks us to see inside ourselves, and confront the ultimate unknown: death.

🖤 Horror, Death & the Shadow of the Soul

At its core, horror circles back to one truth: death. Every scream, every haunting, every drop of blood is a rehearsal for mortality. Psychology says we’re drawn to horror for this “safe” encounter with death. But as a shamanic witch, I see death as transformation — a sacred initiation, not an ending. My fascination with morbidity isn’t celebration — it’s reverence. Horror reminds me of our fragility, and yet, keeps me alive.

🎤 Eminem’s Raw Alchemy

Alongside horror, music became my other shadow mirror. Rob Zombie, Nine Inch Nails, and especially Eminem, whose raw confessions taught me that trauma and rage could be turned into unapologetic art. He taught me that pain isn’t silence — it can be a roar. That’s the same alchemy horror gave me: turning fear into fascination, pain into power.

🎶 Closing Ritual: Soundtrack from My Shadow

To seal this journey, I want to leave you not only with words, but with sound.

Song: BloodLines by Janeen Stokes

(Stream on SoundCloud) https://on.soundcloud.com/ftvp89oGfOJ7Kwrlju

This track is the beating heart of this newsletter — your portal into the same alchemy we’ve been exploring. It’s the pulse of morbidity, the echo of shadow, and the voice of transformation.

✨ Reflection while listening: Feel the rhythm. Let it ripple through your bones. Ask yourself: What part of my shadow is ready to be heard, ready to transform, ready to create?

🕯️ A Poetic Offering

To close, here’s a poem born from shadow, pain, and alchemy:

The Dark Night

Darkness fell upon door in my darkest hour

As the rain falls upon my head I wish for death

It’s raining within, in my soul

Alone, bound and broken

The love has gone away

The sadness are like waves and

I’m drowning in it

I am nothing

🔥 This is my truth. My alchemy. The monster is my muse, and morbidity is Sacred.