TW: Mention of suicide and suicidality
I believe the biggest stigma right now with mental health is that a lot of men are afraid to talk about it.
— Michael Phelps
I talked with a man the other day at a wedding. Nothing very unusual in that, you might think. But that’s the point. It’s very unusual. So much so that a ten minute chat with a man in an Ambleside pub last summer inspired three blog posts. You can read them here: One Must Imagine Marty and John Happy, Miserable Places, and An Instrument for Living. It’s not that meaningful conversations are rare for me. I have them on a more or less daily basis. With women. Since university my close friends have all been women. That’s worth exploring in its own right but for now I want to focus on the fact I was talking openly and honestly with a man I’d only met a few hours earlier.
I’ve written previously about what being a man means to me. I’ve explored toxic masculinity and shared six qualities and twelve men I admire. Despite that, I’ve never felt a strong sense of community with other men. In Belonging (Longing to Be) I wrote that “our gender group is arguably the most fundamental belonging, but it’s eluded me. I’ve had very few adult male friends, and little of ‘what men are supposed to like’ resonates for me.” Spaces tailored to the needs or preferences of men feel alien.
That includes peer-led groups such as Andy’s Man Club which runs “talking groups throughout the UK for men who have either been through a storm, are currently going through a storm or have a storm brewing in life.” Men’s Sheds organises community spaces for men to connect, converse and create. These spaces “help reduce loneliness and isolation, but most importantly, they’re fun.” I wouldn’t find them so. Humour is a very personal thing but it’s more than that. Ironically, what puts me off these groups is the very thing that’s meant to attract me: their male-centredness. I’d struggle to relate to other members on a man-to-man basis. I recognise nonetheless that they’re meeting a critical need.
Mental health affects all of us, whether directly or through those we know, love, and care about. Me included. I’ve never been diagnosed with a mental health condition but as I first described five years ago this boy gets sad too.
In my lapel is the BOYS GET SAD TOO pin I bought recently. It doesn’t mean the healthy kind of sadness that arises in response to events. I feel that kind sometimes, of course. It means depression, anxiety, stress, mental ill-health of all kinds. Boys — and men — get that way too. I get that way too. The deeper, pervasive malaise I’ve felt for a while is of that kind. It’s becoming endemic. Part of my emotional landscape. Flat, arid, featureless.
I’m open about my mental health on the public stage. I’ve written of my emotional flatness. I’ve described how I first became aware that my baseline mood had shifted from positive to low and shared how I distract myself when I’m feeling down. But I rarely discuss any of this with men in person. I have little reason to. My support needs are met in full by my network of friends and there are no men on Team Marty.
I almost wore my BOYS GET SAD TOO pin badge to the wedding. I transferred it from my tweed jacket where it normally lives to the lapel of my suit, then changed my mind. I’m not sure why. It wouldn’t have been inappropriate. A wedding is as good an occasion as any to be open about mental health, mine included. It might have helped my social anxiety by serving as an ice breaker. I was wearing my BOYS GET SAD TOO socks but it was late in the day by the time anyone noticed.
It didn’t matter too much in the end. I did pretty well, although I can’t take credit for the conversations I’m describing, both of which were initiated by my new friend. Our talk ranged widely as it does in all good conversations. Topics included our respective life stories at the getting-to-know-you / do-we-have-anything-in-common level. Our favourite subjects at school. Where we’ve lived. Where we’ve worked. Things that have interested and motivated us. We’re of an age and found we had several points of contact.
Writing’s always been an important part of my life. Poetry in my late teens and twenties. Short stories and articles inspired by the fantasy fiction of JRR Tolkien. An as-yet unpublished novella. The book I co-authored with Fran on being a supportive friend to someone living with mental illness. The weekly blog posts I’ve written since 2013. And through it all, the diary I’ve kept since I was fourteen. If my friend’s interest in writing was unanticipated — I loved our gentle disagreement as to whether language in poetry is necessarily more or less precise than in prose — his passion for geology was a delight. (If I haven’t passed you the details by the time you read this, the “Scottish geologist” I mentioned at the wedding is Luisa Hendry, “That girl that makes videos about rocks.”)
Lifting the lid a little further on our lives we discussed disappointments and frustrations. Changes in direction. Realignments. Things we’ve wanted to do but haven’t. Things we might have changed and didn’t. My three decades (and counting) in the same job are the perfect example. Long service is generally thought of as an achievement. I see it as a lack of ambition. As I wrote on the occasion of my thirty years service in 2023, “Thirty years working for essentially the same employer — and in essentially the same role — doesn’t feel much of an achievement to me. It feels like what happens when you never pushed yourself to find something better.” I appreciated my new friend’s assurance that this was, in fact, something to be proud of.
We touched on heavier matters, including mental health and suicide. I hadn’t anticipated these topics coming up but I’m used to talking about them with other friends. I spoke of my experience supporting Fran through the ups and downs of bipolar disorder. We talked about other people in our lives, present and past. Mutual friends. I told him of my social anxiety, aware of the irony of doing so at a wedding with someone I’d never spoken to before. It helped that we were talking one-to-one, albeit surrounded by folk engaged in their own conversations. It’s also possible that my anxiety had eased by this stage. It was early evening. The main events of the day were over and I knew I could leave at any point.
I don’t know how long that second conversation lasted. More than the ten minutes at the bar in Ambleside last summer. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? We talked for perhaps an hour in total. What matters more than the number of minutes is that I felt comfortable during our conversations and afterwards. I’m grateful for that. (If you’re reading this, thank you.) At the same time, I don’t feel I was too enthusiastic or gushing, which is a tendency I have with new people. I hope not, at least. I haven’t found myself analysing everything I shared or didn’t share. That’s a good sign.
I said my goodbyes and headed home happy with how the day had gone. I’d managed my social anxiety well enough and had several good conversations in addition to those I’ve discussed here. The experience reminded me that what matters more than gender, age, or any other characteristic is our willingness to be open and honest with ourselves and with other people. I hope to take that lesson forward. I don’t know how much opportunity there’ll be for my new friend and I to continue our conversations in person but the seeds have been sown. I look forward to seeing how they develop.
Over to You
In this post I’ve described how it felt to have a meaningful conversation with a man, which is a rare experience for me. Do you find it easier to open up to men or to women, or does gender not make any difference to you? I’m interested to know your thoughts, either in the comments below or via our contact page.
Photo by Richard Williams at Unsplash.
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