Sunday Reflection — Saint Dirty Face Style

Here’s the truth nobody likes to say out loud:

The monster in your head never dies.

It doesn’t get defeated.

It doesn’t get “healed.”

It doesn’t go to therapy, cry it out, and then politely leave your psyche like a guest who overstayed their welcome.

Nah.

That thing signs a lease.

It pays rent in memories, regrets, what-if’s, and those late-night reruns of conversations you should’ve handled differently.

But here’s the twist that keeps the whole show from going off the rails:

You don’t have to kill the monster.

You just have to teach it how to walk on a leash.

You say:

“Sit. Heel. We’re not doing all that today. I’ve got shit to do.”

The monster is your:

anger that shows up like an old biker friend trauma that still thinks it has VIP access to your thoughts fear that whispers like it knows something you don’t shame that acts like your attorney, judge, and executioner all at once

But the older we get — Gen X clearance rack philosophers that we are —

we learn something better than “healing”:

We learn how to make the monster useful.

Turn the anger into drive.

Turn the fear into caution.

Turn the pain into art.

Turn the shame into wisdom.

You don’t bury the beast.

You become its handler.

And eventually, the monster stops trying to eat you

and starts guarding you instead.

This is how you survive adulthood without becoming a bland beige oatmeal person who collects inspirational mugs.

You don’t get rid of your darkness.

You domesticate it.

So yeah, the monster doesn’t die.

Good.

You might still need it on Tuesday.

Peace & Love, Sinners.

Stay Dirty. Stay Human. Stay Dangerous.™