Walking out of the theater, I felt like I had been sucker-punched. My mind was racing; my gut, twisted. I felt angry, sad, pained – all in one sunny Saturday afternoon.

Great art is supposed to make one feel. I prefer to be elated, to laugh, to feel like I’m on the top of the world and hope abounds. Feeling like a twisted, emotional pretzel with the weight of the world slathered on for good measure ain’t my idea of fun. “Million Dollar Baby” certainly tied me up in knots.

So if you’re planning to go see the Oscar-nominated movie by Clint Eastwood, you should leave this column for another day. Read the comics, check out sports – I don’t want to spoil your movie-going pleasure.

Mine’s already been spoiled. You see, I’m a sucker for happy endings, which is why romantic comedies are my favorite movie fare. Life carries enough pain and suffering to overburden any soul, and I’m no masochist. To pay to watch blood, guts and tragedy isn’t my idea of entertainment. This is why I have yet to see “Schindler’s List” in its entirety, though I know I should because it reminds us of the world’s vile ugliness and that there have been real-life angels fighting those demons throughout history. (Besides, tuning in to TV news more than fulfills my quota on tsunamis, war, famine and the struggles of suffering people everywhere.)

I went to see “Baby” thinking it was a 21st-century depiction of Rocky on estrogen, and Hilary Swank, who plays the boxer gal struggling against the odds to become the next champ, surely fulfilled my expectations. (If you’re still reading this and plan to see the movie, this is your last chance to turn the page.)

Instead of Rocky, though, we were treated to Dr. Jack Kevorkian. Remember the Doctor of Darkness, the guy who made assisted suicide for terminally ill people a crusade?

If I were a quadriplegic I’d be mad as hell at this movie. Walking out, I was just as angry, particularly because it made me think about the spiritual, ethical and gut-wrenching questions many of us will face at some point about when life is no longer worth living. If a gal who has fought all her life – to get out of the trailer park, out of a dysfunctional family of welfare queens and criminal siblings – doesn’t have the spunk to fight for life as a Supergirl, the way Christopher Reeve, aka “Superman,” did in real life, well, what’s to hope for?

Like I said, I like happy endings.

But life doesn’t offer too many of those, and this movie definitely captured a real-life dilemma. When is it OK to pull the plug? Is it ever OK?

How about if you’re unable to breathe on your own, as Swank’s character is portrayed, but you’re mental faculties are intact? When you can’t feed yourself and doctors determine you’re in a vegetative state because only your brain stem guides involuntary movements – like the real-life case of Terri Schiavo? Where does the slippery slope end? Where to draw the line?

Even Reeve, an optimist who fought for nine years to expand stem-cell research in hopes of finding a cure to spinal injuries, admitted that in the days after his accident he just wanted to die. He thought about suicide. Then he moved on. He faced his difficulties with the zeal of a convert to a new faith. He died last year, ever hopeful of a cure that political forces calling themselves “pro life” seek to deny him and millions of others.

Still, Reeve fought the hard fight, challenging us to dream, to hope about science’s potential. Swank’s character in the movie chose to give up, and her mentor, a man who goes to church every day, no less, helps her fulfill her choice.

“Million Dollar Baby” lies at the epicenter of our culture wars, no question. But as Eastwood, who directed and starred in the film, points out, it’s based on a novel. It’s fiction – art that’s supposed to make us feel, think, debate, carry on.

This movie surely is not what advocates for the disabled view as a hope-filled story, helping those with severe physical disabilities embrace life. It’s ironic, because for me, “Baby” has done precisely that.