I used to love Batman. I wanted to have his tragic billionaire Bat-babies. #dontjudgeme
Sometimes, I would imagine that Batman and Superman were both Asian to make them acceptable for me to date. (Hey, when I was in high school, I was only interested in Chinese American boys.)
I mean, come on. Batman is a genius and rich and knows every martial art ever and has black hair. Except for the blue eyes, he’s totally Asian. Superman? He wears glasses. Has black hair. On looks alone, he’s Asian – except he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed and he’s a journalist and of course, we know that Asian Americans don’t do liberal arts. But he’s an alien and constantly feels as if he doesn’t fit in – so, yeah. Asian American.
Anyhow, I digress. (After all, that’s fodder for a future post about why representation matters.)
I loved Batman because what’s not to love about a billionaire playboy with hidden depths? Tragedy! Angst! Badass! Fights crime! Plus, super smart and did I mention, tragic backstory?
[clickToTweet tweet=”Batman’s #brokenness is a pitiable state – not because he is broken, but because he refuses to heal. #batman #love #fear” quote=”Batman’s brokenness is a pitiable state – not because he is broken, but because he refuses to heal.” theme=”style1″]
Then one day after I had children, I realized that I no longer loved Batman. I used to want to be Batman. And now? Now, I feel sorry for him.
I take that as a sign of my healing.
Though I love Batman in a nostalgic sort of way, mostly, I see how he is broken and really, for lack of a better term, fucked up.
Like, super fucked up.
What used to attract me to him was now a liability.
Batman is notorious for being a loner. He has incredibly bad relationships with his lovers and partners. He has boundary issues and for a genius vigilante, is actually really stupid when it comes to anything dealing with human relationships.
I realized what I found appealing about being Batman was the very thing that made me broken. I wanted to be badass, yes. But mostly, I envied his armored heart.
Batman, at his very core, reacts to life out of fear. Fear of abandonment and loss. Short of Alfred, his servant, no one really knows him. He is alone and lonely.
Like recognizes like.
But now that I’ve progressed a bit in my healing, I no longer want to be Batman. Yes, yes. Having a bulletproof heart is appealing when I’m hurt and terrified of loving my children. But even I know that Batman is missing out.
Even I can now see how Batman’s brokenness is a pitiable state – not because he is broken, but because he refuses to heal. (One could argue that he sacrifices his heart for the sake of Gotham City, but I think that’s a cop out.)
If I were really like Batman, I would not have the love of my husband, my children, or my friends and family.
[clickToTweet tweet=”What I found appealing about #Batman was the very thing that made me #broken. I wanted to be badass, yes. But mostly, I envied his armored heart. Batman, at his very core, reacts to life out of fear. #Fear of abandonment and loss. ” quote=”I realized what I found appealing about being Batman was the very thing that made me broken. I wanted to be badass, yes. But mostly, I envied his armored heart. Batman, at his very core, reacts to life out of fear. Fear of abandonment and loss. ” theme=”style1″]
I don’t care if it’s cheesy. It’s true. I’ve grown up and no longer find this fantasy of the lone vigilante beautiful or good.
And one day, hopefully on this side of death, I can finally say that my heart is sure enough to forego its armor and love fully without reservation.
