The Accidental Comfort Movie
Last night I got comfy in bed, full of the cold, armed with tissues, tea, and the kind of man flu that makes you question whether you should draft a will “just in case.” In my search for comfort, I landed on Frankenstein on Netflix. I’ve always loved the old black-and-white monster films, the melodrama, the fog, the overacting, and the questionable special effects that still somehow simply worked. So I hit play fully expecting… well, not much. A nostalgic attempt. A decent distraction. Maybe a monster or two roaring in ways that felt oddly therapeutic.
But then the movie surprised me.
A Creature You Can’t Help but Root For
This version doesn’t just modernize Frankenstein; it humanizes him. It makes you root for the creature in a way the original films never did. Instead of a lumbering monster with bolts in his neck, we get someone (something?) who feels heartbreakingly real. A being stitched together by someone else’s choices, waking up in a world that fears him before he even understands what fear means.
And sitting there under a blanket, feeling like my sinuses were actively revolting, I realized… wow. That hits close to home for anyone living with CPTSD.
Trauma You Never Asked For
Because you know what? The creature didn’t ask to be what he is. He didn’t ask to carry the weight of someone else’s actions. The fear, the abandonment, or the confusion that hit him before he even had language for any of it. He didn’t ask for the world to misunderstand him on sight. And he definitely didn’t ask to be punished for things he never had a chance to control.
Sound familiar?
Trauma survivors, especially those of us with CPTSD, often move through life feeling like we’re carrying inherited storms. We grow up with wounds we didn’t choose, behaviors we learned to survive, and emotional wiring that someone else installed. Then we spend adulthood trying to undo the damage, untangle the mess, and explain to people why we react the way we do even when we wish we didn’t.
The Loneliness of Being Misunderstood
In Frankenstein, the creature keeps reaching out for connection. Real connection. And every time, the world recoils. Not because of who he is, but because of what they assume. He wants safety. He wants belonging. And he wants someone to look at him without running away.
And honestly? That might be the most human thing about him.
When Survival Becomes the Story
That’s what struck me about this version of the story; it mirrors the emotional landscape of trauma more than any horror film ever intended. The “monster” isn’t monstrous. He’s sensitive. Curious. Gentle at times. Terrified at others. He lashes out only when pushed beyond what any being should be expected to endure. And isn’t that what happens to so many of us? When you’ve been hurt enough, misunderstood enough, and abandoned at the wrong critical moments, your survival responses become the story people see, while the real you sits behind the scenes hoping someone will notice the difference.
The Most Human Character Isn’t Human
The most human character in the movie isn’t the scientist, the love interest or the frightened townspeople. It’s the creature, the one who wasn’t born but was created; who didn’t harm but was harmed; who didn’t choose his story but still carries it with him, stumbling through a world that refuses to offer grace.
And I think that’s why the film works so well for those of us still navigating the long, uneven road of healing. It whispers something we don’t hear enough:
You are not the monster in your story.
You never were.
You were shaped by forces outside your control, and you survived anyway.
So yeah, I expected a campy evening of nostalgia while battling my man flu. Instead, I got a surprisingly emotional reminder that sometimes the character we’ve been taught to fear is the one we relate to the most.
Turns out, the creature wasn’t the monster.
He was the mirror.