My Batman Sweater
A story of the power of PTSD
When I was in pre-school, most teachers reported to my Mom that I preferred to play with the boys. There was a very sound reason for this. That oh so important question- what to do want to be when you grow up? The girls dreamed of being princesses, dolphin trainers, teachers, unicorns. And I wanted to be Batman.
During Saturday-morning breakfast cartoons, while eating one or another cereal comprised of nothing but sugar and colours, sometimes I got see Batman. I remember seeing Superman too, and naturally you would think that I would be more attracted to the colourful one who can fly and is strong enough to throw an astral body out of orbit. No. I liked the one who should have scared me, in his cape and cowl of black and the fact that he only fought at night. Nay, it was not to be. Batman had my heart from the time my young mind could make sense of moving pictures until the present day.
Obviously there is a lot to say about Batman, but one is that this comic-book hero fits into place alongside other figures I admire. Oscar Wilde, Stephen Hawking, Plato, Da Vinci, Batman. I imagine the scenario:
I am in an office overlooking the entire city through a wall made entirely of glass. The man sitting opposite the mahogany table has finished looking through my CV and smiles up at me. Now come the infamous questions of the interview. I have researched every possible one and am prepared. Eventually, the time comes. “Whether living or a part of history, who would you say has been an inspiration to you in your life?” The interview has gone excellently so far, I’m sure he is expecting an impressive answer with sound reasoning. I sit, composed. My breathing and pulse rate normal. “Well Sir, that would be Batman.” The CEO’s smile does not waver, as he believes he has simply misheard. He chuckles lightly. “I’m sorry, I believe I did not catch that. Would you mind repeating yourself?” My expression does not change. “I said, Sir, the answer is Batman.” My interviewer frowns, and brows furrow. He says, a slight edge in his voice, “Ms. Krause, as one of our top candidates, I believed you would take this interview seriously. If you wish to waste my time, I suggest you leave my office.” I smile, holding his gaze steadily. “Sir. Trust me while I demonstrate why this time will be precious to you.” I then begin my prepared answer.
I soon receive news that the position is mine.
And so now we get to the part I’ve been dreading. Perhaps, for some, speaking or writing about their PTSD feels okay, because they are at a point in their life where they have healed enough to do so. For me, it still brings fear. And I well know that everything about it could never be written in one blog post. Perhaps a book. Or several. But for now, I can write about one sweater.
A few years ago, I bought a Batman sweater from the male’s section of a local clothing shop. Extra large, for comfort. I still have pictures of me wearing it that I can’t quite get myself to delete. The last picture was taken on Batman day of last year, before I began my ECT sessions. I had worn it so much in my life that the logo was beginning to split apart slightly. One will find that if one has had an item of clothing for a while, it’s almost like love and memories have been poured into it. Letting it go won’t often happen, unless it were to spontaneously unravel itself or be the victim of a freak fire in which nothing is hurt besides the sweater, used to douse out the flame. Batman saves the day again.
When my ECT sessions began, I guess I was a little nervous. And so I decided to wear my Batman sweater to every session, as Batman is brave. It was sort of a joke in a way. I would take selfies of myself sitting waiting for my session in my sweater, and send them to my one friend who knew about the sessions at the time. But then, session five. The session it all went wrong.
After everything that happened and the PTSD that followed, I became terrified if I thought of certain things. Everything about the procedure, how inability to sleep became torture, the hospital. Losing the ability to hear music properly, read, watch things. Fear responses. And I remembered my Batman sweater. Worn to every session, and then the last. I feared it, I hated it, I wanted it gone. Burnt. When I looked at it strewn on the floor it felt as if it was some sort of snake, ready to strike. I would give it to my Mom to give to hospice. As long as it was out of my life, I didn’t care. All the precious memories it carried were erased and replaced with pure fear. This is the power of PTSD.
There is a Pick ‘n Pay clothing store near me. The boys section has the hoodies I like to buy (XL of course). And, out of coincidence, it also has superhero merchandise. I bit my lip.
What if I got a new Batman sweater? One for healing and not fear? I was about to start to start EMDR therapy. What if I wore it there? Or just at home, writing?
Well, these things sell out quickly anyway. I suppose I could just see what was there or not. If a Flash one was available it would absolutely be on my list (see upcoming blog post: The Flashpoint Paradox). I found two suitable hoodies for myself before deciding to peek into the other merchandise section. I saw some classic blue Superman ones and smiled. As I grew older and read more comics, I became fonder of the boy-scout. And then, digging back further on the rails, Batman. Black, with his yellow Bat-computer symbol. Loading, it said. I didn’t flinch. I thought, “Yes, I want this”. I found the XL and pulled it out of the depths. I looked at it, and thought it would do just fine. And that one day I would order myself a proper black hoodie with his yellow symbol. And be strong, brave and capable. Able to lead something close to my old life. PTSD does not have to rule you, although it feels like it has the ability to. Fight, as much as in your capability. Find a community to talk to. Reach out. And be strong.
Before I left, I grabbed an XL Superman sweater. Because I would need all the help I could get.
Song of the day: Carry It On — Racing Glaciers
