MENTAL HEALTH
Supermen or Dark Knights
I suppose you have read a Superman comic or watched the movies. In that case, you have a fairly good idea of what the superhero is all about. “Truth, Justice and The American way,” so the old black-and-white television show touted. I never liked him much. Then he’d show up and save the day, and I tolerated his boy scout superhuman powers. I am more of a Batman guy. I hated that all a villain had to do was use a green rock to make him drop to his knees in weakness. Batman used his brain and bank account to beat the same villains! Superman still gets the main stage. Most men have a Superman complex of one degree or another. We take this “superman” stance in how we provide, protect, and produce. Maybe all three, but as we make our way as spouses, brothers, boyfriends, and bachelors, we owe it to our friends and families to get the healing we need. The world does not need another fictitious Superman. Your world needs you to be more like Batman.
What is Batman, if not completely broken by childhood trauma? As an adult, he is a loner, broody, moody and his need for justice blinds him. He knows his limits and knows who he is and what he can do with brilliant detective skills, martial arts, and gadgets. Then he finds the bad guys and beats the immortal shit out of them. Batman is the only DC comic superhero with no superpowers. He is also the one of the Justice League that needs about 10 years of therapy, mood stabilizers, and anger management classes. This brings us to our story.
I went to see yet another therapist when I was 52 years old. I had been to other therapists before, but this time it was all my idea. Jennie was a dream. Okay, she was my nightmare for a bit but not until she introduced the concept that I had experienced trauma. I didn’t even know that I had trauma. I had never even been to a trauma ward, so why would I think that about trauma? I felt that trauma was some really serious accident that resulted in a loss of limb or deformation. My therapist told me that I had behaviors that were a result of some past trauma. I quickly looked up the definition on my smartphone. I discovered that I never had a “deeply distressing or disturbing experience.” Well, there was the time I tried acid, and that runs a close second to when I watch the “House on The Left,” but those traumas didn’t seem to have lasting effects on my younger self which apparently was worse than a bad LSD trip or a classic horror movie.
“No, you are mistaken. I have never experienced trauma of any sort. You will have to try to do something better than that,” I said as condescending as possible, “I am talking about the way I feel, my emotions and how I feel, and my self-doubt.” She said it to me like it was all as normal as breathing.
And that is how I started my relationship with my therapist. I will spare you the session notes. It was colorful, though! I said “fuck” a lot. But I discovered that I had experienced trauma. In fact, I had experienced a slew of traumatic things that caused damage, and that disfigured and deformed me emotionally. There is nothing like having a disfigurement that no one can see. Still, everyone can feel it because your dysfunction is getting everywhere. Then I said “fuck” even more!
“Oh, but it is a good thing to have that kind of release,” my therapist informed me.
I supposed that stubbing your toe and having your hair yanked out was also considered a good thing in her mind. Now there was a release. It was not what I expected. The picture in my head of my “release’ would have looked like a welcomed sigh of relief. Maybe in a green pasture with bluebirds singing and animal friends coming to witness this newly whole man, all while Julie Andrews singing “The Hills Are Alive” while twirling in the background.
But nay, nay, to the fucking nay! It was dark and cloudy. The cold rain beat a dirge on my car roof as I sat stuck on Flamingo Blvd during rush hour in Las Vegas. Then, the sun broke through for a few moments, just a stream of light that lit up the west side of Vegas, so beautifully radiant…and I began to cry. Not like tears of joy calmly trickling down my face, but more of an eruption. Now, I don’t know if I have ever needed to “ugly cry” before, but that is what happened, is my best guess. Stuck in traffic and falling apart because of the breaking through of sunlight for two minutes. I could not stop. I was in traffic, and what must it have looked like? A tattooed, long-haired, bearded, biker-esque man in his 50s, face squished up, tears, snot, and slobber everywhere. And the noises that were coming out of me! For a moment, I thought that a hog mounted a hoarse cat in my back seat! It just was me. The traffic and rain cleared, and I made it home safely.
The next week, I settled into Janene’s office. The dim lights and warm colors kind of made me want to take a nap.
“So, how was your week of release? Was it good?” She asked in her therapist voice.
I used my patient voice and replied, “if you mean good, like when that boil on your back pops,” I replied. Janene nodded and began to ask me something, but I was not finished.
“And you are in public, but it doesn’t really pop. It explodes…all over your snowy white gown…while walking down the aisle. It is such a relief, but no one really wants to see that shit.”
Oh, the laughter, the tears, the moments of self-realization, awareness that somehow kicked off my healing process. Once, my trauma caused by my experiences wasn’t just me not making the mark, but that I have been lied to, gaslighted, and manipulated for most of my life. I began to heal. I felt better.
All my pain-in-neck therapist did was validate my experiences, making them real, and healing began. This took place in my early 50s. How much time of recovery was wasted because of my inability to talk about my emotions and feelings? I appear so open and willing to talk, but as a man, I hid all that pain and ugliness because I didn’t want to appear weak or incapable. I wanted to be that solid rock. I wanted to be the one that did the saving and the rescuing. I did not want to be rescued because that would make me be the one with problems. I wanted to be Superman. I wanted to be more than society and culture expected from me.
What, in the actual fucus, does Father Society and Mother Culture even know? Have they ever steered us in the right direction? They are not even our real parents! I, for one, am sick of listening to these illegitimate parents and think that it is time that I listened to the one voice that believes in me, knows me, and loves me for who I am…okay, besides my mom! There is only one who knows me, loves me, and understands me, and that is little ol’ me, myself, and I.
Listen to me, all you manly men who can wrestle live bulls to the ground, punch out a horse, with gigantic imaginary superman S’s on your chest…you have the permission of the Universe to feel whatever emotion you want. The truth is, men have trauma and men can be depressed. To experience emotional pain is to be a human being. It is perfectly normal, and it is human to have pain, trauma, and sadness. Remember, my supermen out there, even he had kryptonite.
Not Batman, though. He had the same weaknesses as you. Think of how much better it will be to know and heal from your pain. Your kryptonite is your humanity. This is who you are, and even if you can’t bend steel with your bare hands like Superman — you can be Batman — which is pretty awesome. But only if you go to therapy and let that Dark Knight take the mic and talk to your therapist, say “fuck” a lot and get the healing done. You deserve to heal. You are perfectly normal and “a man” if you go get the recovery that you deserve.
Not only that, you can be 100% who you are without the fear of that emotional boil bursting or showing yourself as weak. Your lovers, offspring, and amigos will love you for it. Do you know why?
Because they need you. Your spouses, kids and friends really need you to be present in their lives. In short, the world needs you… Gotham needs you… so why not be the healthiest, happiest, and most badass Batman in this world as witnesses. We need you, Batman, so get your ass to therapy. It will be good for you.
The Bat-Signal shines bright in the night sky — Gotham needs you.
