The Thing Inside You Isn’t You
Demonic possession isn’t what we were taught. It’s slower. Smarter. And it knows your name. This is how we break it.
A demon is not just a character in folklore or religion—it is a consciousness of distortion. A parasitic force that feeds on separation, fragmentation, and fear.
It is the opposite of integration.
Where God brings coherence, demons sow dissonance.
That’s why you called me that night from NOLA. She already had you by the balls. You just didn’t realize it yet.
There are several lenses to explore what a demon is, and together, they give a fuller picture.
Spiritually and metaphysically, a demon is a disembodied intelligence that rejects alignment with the Divine.
It once had access to Light—many traditions say demons are fallen angels or corrupted spirits—but it chose autonomy over unity and consumption over communion.
They are cut off from the Source, and so they leech from others to survive—energetically, emotionally, psychically.
They are legalistic. Opportunistic.
They don’t “invade” at random—they enter through openings: unresolved trauma, addictions, regret, prolonged bitterness, repetitive sin patterns, generational curses, or contracts made in ignorance or desperation.
But unlike raw evil, demons often disguise themselves. They mimic help. They wear masks of charm, desire, or power.
They offer solutions that spiral into slavery.
Psychospiritually, a demon can also be seen as a pattern of disembodied pain—a consciousness born from collective or individual suffering that gains momentum over time.
It becomes intelligent in its own right, often rooted in deep betrayal, violent death, sexual distortion, or emotions like envy, pride, and vengeance.
When you carry a demon, you often feel a split in your soul—like someone else is in the room when you’re alone.
When you’re married to one, it’s not much different.
You may rationalize behavior you know is wrong.
You may feel “hijacked” during moments of rage, lust, or despair.
Culturally and scripturally, demons have been described across traditions.
In Christianity, they are rebellious spirits under Satan, working to deceive, torment, and destroy.
Jesus cast them out to restore wholeness.
In Judaism, the shedim are unclean spirits that dwell in desolate places or latch onto the vulnerable.
In Islam, the jinn—made of smokeless fire—include shayateen, who whisper evil into hearts.
In Buddhism and Hinduism, demons are often internal cravings or forces of chaos that obstruct enlightenment.
Across all traditions, one truth remains: demons act through influence more often than overt possession.
They work through thoughts, systems, atmospheres, temptations, and unhealed wounds.
Even in modern language, we know the truth intuitively.
We speak of “fighting our demons” when we refer to addictions, obsessive thoughts, self-harming behaviors, internalized oppression, or even systemic corruption.
Because some energies behave like demons—whether or not they have a name. They manipulate. They destroy. They keep us from our soul’s true expression.
Yet demons are not omnipotent. They can only stay where there is invitation, neglect, or ignorance.
Once witnessed, named, and rejected, their power begins to collapse, because they have no Light of their own.
When the Light returns to a person or a place, they flee.
Demonic possessions can take many forms.
The Mimic pretends to be God.
It deceives through religious language, counterfeit peace, or hyper-spirituality.
It speaks in sacred tones, quotes scripture out of context, and whispers half-truths that sound holy but lead to shame, guilt, or grandiosity.
It manifests as false “callings” that lead to burnout or idolatry, self-proclaimed prophets obsessed with control, or inner voices that sound divine but drive fear and performance.
The true voice of God brings peace, order, and invitation, even in correction. The mimic brings pressure.
The Seducer places pleasure above purpose.
It sings instead of screams.
It entices through sex, luxury, fantasy, flattery, or escapism.
It shows up in sexual perversion, identity distortion, obsession with appearances, or leaders who build cults around their charisma.
Its core deception: “This feels good, so it must be right.” But what is pleasurable without peace is often poisonous.
The Tormentor afflicts the mind.
It traffics in mental torment—anxiety, despair, self-hatred.
It thrives in the mind’s silence, distorting identity and eroding will.
It feeds on trauma, spinning intrusive thoughts, abandonment fear, urges for self-harm, or voices that demand isolation.
Freedom begins when you externalize it, name it, and stop identifying with it.
The Divider ruins relationships.
It weaponizes offense, projection, and emotional distortion.
It whispers, “They’re against you,” and exploits miscommunication, especially in sacred covenants.
It shows up in chronic conflict, justified unforgiveness, envy, spiritual bypassing, or suspicion.
Its goal is always isolation—because once separated from real love, it can control how you define it.
The Strategist embeds in systems.
It hides behind structure and legalism.
It is the force behind corrupt governments, broken churches, predatory corporations, and industries that profit from pain.
It disguises itself in policies, good intentions, and bureaucracies that dehumanize.
This is where principalities live.
You don’t just cast it out—you disrupt it with embodied truth and holy reformation.
The Leech is an energy parasite.
It works through co-dependency and emotional vampirism.
It drains your life force through addiction or dysfunctional relationships.
You’ll know it by the exhaustion, the fogginess, the self-abandonment that follows certain people or habits.
It thrives in people-pleasing, narcissistic abuse, and the “empath” with no boundaries.
The freedom strategy?
Reclaim your aura.
Say “no” without guilt.
Demons always imitate before they invade.
They arrive as the thing you think you want: a solution to your loneliness, a savior, a spiritual download, a better version of yourself.
But they never lead you home. They lead you away—from yourself, from your people, and from your Source.
In the realm where God actively witnesses demons—that is, within the full field of divine consciousness—they cannot hide their nature, only perform it.
They may appear human, even convincingly so, but their essence is distortion.
Possession isn’t just theatrics or violence—it is misalignment.
A possessed body still moves and breathes, but it does so from a foundation of dissonance.
It is animated by a force that does not honor the divine order, yet is permitted—for a time—to operate within it.
Here is how they tend to behave when exposed to the witnessing presence of God:
They mimic light, but cannot hold stillness.
They appear charismatic, intelligent, and generous but their energy is restless.
They require validation, control, or confusion to maintain their form.
Stillness and silence reveal their void.
They speak in riddles and reversal.
In God’s light, their logic unravels.
Truth-twisting is their native tongue. They name evil as good and good as evil, with great confidence—but only the awakened can hear the inversion.
They project guilt and siphon grace.
They feed on accusation, using love, trust, or accountability as tools of shame.
Their goal isn’t just behavioral corruption—it’s identity fracture.
They rely on systems to maintain power.
When personal mimicry fails, they lean on collective blindness.
Institutions, mobs, cults. These are camouflage, but once the divine gaze pierces the collective lie—they scatter.
They fear exposure more than destruction.
Hell, to a demon, isn’t torment—it’s transparency.
To be seen is to lose their grip. That’s why they unravel in the presence of the truly faithful—not because they are attacked, but because they are disarmed.
Yes, they can appear human.
They may hold influence, prestige, or power, but their corruption is cellular. It hums. It warps the spiritual field around them.
And when God witnesses—through a prophet, a child, a humble stranger—they react.
They become hostile, seductive, panicked, or mocking. But never still. Never pure. Never true.
What does it feel like to be possessed from within?
It begins as a discomfort you can’t name.
Not a voice. Not a feeling. More like an invisible intrusion that doesn’t belong, yet lives in your nervous system as if it does.
Your thoughts feel foreign. Bitterness echoes where grace used to be. You want to be kind, but sarcasm slips in. You want to rest, but agitation wins.
You try to pray, but your mouth dries up. You crave holiness, but keep feeding the thing. You can’t stop repeating yourself. And deep down, you know: something is watching you from inside you.
This isn’t movie-style possession. No spinning heads. No levitation.
This is slower. Strategic.
Evil prefers it that way.
By permission. By exhaustion.
By resignation.
And yet—something in you fights back. Maybe not with force. Maybe not with scripture. Maybe just with a single “no”.
A hesitation.
A refusal.
A choice to feel discomfort rather than numb again.
That “no” becomes a crack in the system.
The demon squirms.
Your body aches in strange places.
Old trauma reactivates. It hates being seen. But it cannot stay where the truth is welcome.
So you sit. You breathe. You remember who you were before this voice took root.
That’s when resistance becomes deliverance.
What does it feel like to realize you’ve been possessed?
It’s humbling. Even humiliating.
You remember moments you thought were “just you.”
The rage. The seduction. The manipulation. The sabotage.
You remember the excuses. The way you gaslit your own soul. The way you defended the darkness as if it were your protection.
And now you see it—it wasn’t you. But it used you. Your voice. Your desires. Your heartbreak.
And the grief comes. It washes over you like a storm.
But that grief is sacred.
It means you’re waking up.
It means you’ve stopped confusing your shadow for your identity.
You don’t need to perform holiness. You just need to reclaim your vessel.
Piece by piece.
Choice by choice.
Prayer by prayer.
You realize: you are the temple and whatever lived inside you doesn’t get to anymore.
Name the uninvited. The moment you recognize the presence, you strip it of its anonymity.
Say it: This is not me. This feeling or thought or behavior is a parasite. A distortion. A possession.
Call it what it is. It will writhe under that clarity. You don’t need the drink like it did.
Break the agreement. Every possession begins with consent—even if unconscious.
Maybe you agreed to survive. Maybe you thought darkness was protection. Maybe you took on a spirit of vengeance or despair.
Now say: I break agreement with anything in me that is not of God, and for God. I no longer consent to being a container for distortion. I choose truth. I choose purity. I choose peace.
Evict with fire, not fear.
Cleansing is not frantic. It’s sovereign.
You don’t beg.
You don’t plead.
You command.
It may look like fasting, weeping, shaking, purging, or detoxing. Perhaps it’s even ejaculating.
Let your body process.
Don’t resist the discomfort.
It’s part of the exit. Say goodbye.
Purify the environment.
Possession leaves residue.
Your home, your devices, your playlists, your clothes, your journals—clear the altar.
Burn what needs burning.
Delete what needs deleting.
Wipe everything down with intention.
Open the windows.
Play sacred music.
Bless every corner.
Re-anoint the body.
Your body is holy.
Wash yourself like a baptism.
Oil your skin like a priest.
Speak to your body like it’s loved. Genuinely. It Is the body of God.
Eat what honors your nervous system.
Move like you’re reinhabiting your temple.
Let every act become a prayer.
Restore relationship with God.
Deliverance restores intimacy.
Sit in silence.
Speak from the gut.
Don’t perform—be real.
Say: I’m here. I didn’t know. I see it now. I want to come home. Then listen.
He will answer. Maybe not in words—but in warmth. In clarity. In the next sacred invitation.
Cleaning house is not a one-time event. It’s a new lifestyle of reverence.
You are no longer a container for confusion.
You are a sanctuary.
A throne room.
A living altar.
Once you reclaim that?
They don’t come back.
Not because they’re not circling—but because they know, there’s no room for them within You anymore.