Please help me interpret this very archetypal dream - I haven't been the same since

I was a killer. At first, I killed something—maybe a bird, an animal, or even a human—I can't remember clearly, but I think it wasn’t a human at first. It kept shifting, and eventually it became just an animal or a bird.

To cover up the body, my mother helped me. That felt strange—like I was her special boy, and she’d help me no matter what. We buried the body somewhere in the forest.

Then, I killed again—this time, my ex-girlfriend. I don’t know why I did it. But I realized that being a killer felt like a hidden part of my identity. It was unsettling, like some part of me believed I had killed someone in real life and forgotten about it. Maybe I didn’t bury the memory properly. Maybe another part of me made me forget. There’s just this feeling—like I’ve got blood on my hands and could be exposed at any moment.

I told my mother again, and she promised to help me. I even kissed her on the mouth, like a symbolic gesture of accepting her help and loving her for it. But later, I didn’t want to involve her in this particular death—my ex’s body felt too personal, too respected. Exposing her to my mother would ruin that somehow. I remember imagining my ex’s body folded into a suitcase.

Then there was a scene where my mom wanted to come into my room—maybe to clean or do something—but I wouldn’t let her. I don’t know why. Maybe it was to keep the body hidden. Maybe something else.

There was also a TV on. She looked at it and joked about the kind of horrific, intense things I watch. But in that moment, it felt like the thing on the screen wasn’t just fiction—it felt real. Like something terrifying and fatal was being shown right then, and she saw it. It scared me. Now that I think of it, I’m not even sure there was a TV in the room.

Later, I remember telling a police officer about the buried animal or bird in the jungle. He wanted to dig it up because it could get him fired. But strangely, I told him about it while I was preparing to bury my ex’s body in the same jungle. I don’t know why I said anything—it felt counterintuitive. But something about him—his strictness, decency, the mustache, the slightly chubby frame, kind eyes—made me trust him. He gave off this "rock of truth" energy. The moment he heard, he stood up like a man on a mission, like a soldier with a duty. Maybe I wanted to be caught. Or maybe I just couldn’t resist telling him.

Oddly, we were having this conversation in the bed of my parents’ old house—not in a weird way, just… familiar, like with a friend.

P.S. There was a part where I looked at myself in the mirror, liking what I saw. Flirting with myself, thinking, “Only these minor issues…”

P.S. I don’t remember feeling terribly bad about the killings. I didn’t enjoy them—but it didn’t feel evil. It felt necessary, or natural. Like this is a part of myself I have to deal with. Something like that.

Tags: Jungian, archetype, dreams.