Manly Men . . . Men?
Society blends men from all walks of life. But those who do not conform to existing ideals? They are left on their own.
You’re pampered, you’re cheered, you’re the focus, you’re the target, you’re the so-called pillar of society.
And yet all these just ring hollow, like scaffoldings erected to shape you into a mould you don’t want to fit into.
That’s the train of thought that’s been living in my head, rent-free, for the past year. And no, I am not taking a dig at women's empowerment. I cherish it—with the greatest influencers in my life being the women of my family, without whom I possibly wouldn’t even exist.
Nor am I being facetious about issues of feminism, of the progress, prosperity, and—for the purpose of continuing my alliteration—percolation they could have had in society had we treated them as equals.
No, this is about the other end of the spectrum. The one that gets overshadowed by too manly men (the ones who label themselves as alpha, or whatever new Greek-letter chest-thumping they are holding onto for dear life).
This is about men like you and me who feel vulnerable, who wear emotions on their sleeves, and who want to talk their hearts out.
Because sometimes you find yourself at a crossroads.
A crossroad that’s uninviting. A crossroad that taunts you with its pale, overgrown grass and potholed asphalt going in cardinal directions. A crossroad that often makes you feel depressingly lonely. Go ahead and shout . . . nobody’s there to listen. No crickets chirping, no birds idling.
But you have to walk. You have to continue. Because that’s what a man does.
Sage Advice or Veiled Desperation?
A quarter-way through my career that spans seven years, I was treated to this rather clichéd advice for hanging back to do work that was escalated as important, but really wasn’t: Work hard, because that’s what men do. We have to provide.
Now, honestly, I did not pay heed to it as my stomach was producing a guttural roar akin to a V8. I wanted to go home, eat, and then just sleep. But after all these years, those words do slip through the cracks of stress and anxiety, echoing in my cochlea like a haunting ghost of the Christmas past.
There’s an underlined threat here, if you dare to look closely. I doubt the issuer of those words ever felt that. He had money, and he wanted me to work because numbers, duh.
But there’s a cry for help . . .
Men have to work. Men have to provide. But between these lines, men are more than the stereotypical image that society often projects. They have struggles in their own right: self-identity, conformity to cultural strata, sexual curiosity, gender identity, emotional expressions, social insecurities, and negative influences—either of the manosphere or of its bordering ideologies of what manhood is supposed to be.
But when men want to talk about the stress all this brings, it’s the dust and debris that you don’t want your neighbours to see. Quickly, brush it under the carpet!
I was talking to my wife about how lucky she is that, no matter the kind of stress she faces, she has her girls to back her up and listen. When she promptly asked why I wasn’t doing the same with my friends, I was at a loss. I chalked it up to us boys hardly talking about this stuff, that we give silent support. But no, that was a dishonest answer.
The truth is—or maybe it’s just a perspective from my personal experiences—that nobody out there is ready to listen. Yes, our friends care, but they’re probably eyeball-deep in the filth of their own lives, their lungs compressed to even blow a sigh, that nothing comes out.
It’s just a phase, it’s gonna be fine.
Why do you have to worry? You’ll get through.
Pull yourself together, don’t cry like girls (abhorrent advice, honestly)
It will pass. You’re a man.
Why are you depressed? What’s there to be anxious about?
The above come in local flavours and regional contexts. There’s no end to them, though. You’ll always hear it, either from the next-door neighbour sipping tea on his balcony or your own parents telling you that they’re here to support you.
Which is all well and good. But what if I want to go out and scream in agony? What if I want to let out the frustration of feeling like I’m not good enough for my family?
Shhhh, under the carpet, or the neighbours will see!
Numbers Do Matter, It Seems.
Let’s talk numbers, just for a short while. I promise you I am as separated from statistics as a hippopotamus is from condors. But sometimes, you do find them in the same territory (psst, it’s Columbia—there, I saved you a Google search).
An article by Priory rather depressingly titles their findings: that 40 percent of men (surveyed in the UK) won’t talk to anyone about their mental health. In the United States, over 6 million men go through depression every year, as per ADAA. And these are just two nations.
In India, NDTV, in an article with various professors and psychiatrists, reports similar figures. Meanwhile, in China, as the South China Morning Post uncovers, a survey presented grim predictions for those with severe depression under the age of sixty, challenging previously held notions of middle-aged, educated urban men supposedly faring better.
That article from Priory? It also lists some dour lies that men often tell themselves:
I’ve learnt to deal with it.
I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.
I’m too embarrassed.
I don’t want to appear weak.
I have no one to talk to.
These, or whatever variety of lies you are chewing to tell yourself, do point out that we, as a society, have not only failed women, but also men. How did we come to this? In cultures, especially those in South East Asia, I believe, this is likely to be more aggravated. I come from one, and I do feel that when I perk my ears just right, the silences of men deafen my soul.
It’s Time to Come Clean . . . But to Whom?
You’re not alone, though.
This is as much an admittance to my wife as it is to me that something is wrong. That I need to talk about. But I don’t want to be a burden to her. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone—not my mum, my best friends, my peers, or my colleagues. So what I do is gulp the tea steeped in momentary satisfaction and carry on with my life.
It’s just that, lately, it feels too much to roil in my head. So I find an escapism—play some video games, read some books, and when even that fails, write it out. Surely, that will help, right?
Oh dear mind of mine, won’t you come clean tonight? Don’t toss or turn this aside, say what’s bothering you, quite. Oh dear mind of mine, it’s you and me neck-deep in plight. Don’t digress your windows open, but keep it on, that bed-light. Oh dear mind of mine, what happened to your childlike delight? Don’t shy away from the truth, I know a lost soul and its might. Oh dear mind of mine, I snuffed the stars in dark, so white. Don’t try to sleep now, no one’s listening to us tonight.
Will anyone listen if I let it all out? I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. I will have the support of those I love—I know that. They’ll help me, they’ll love me, they’ll pat my back and give me the goodwill of the better that is to come. They’ll encourage that when things go wrong, it’s only for the good.
It’s always darkest before dawn.
Thirty-two years on this planet, with eighteen spent in boyhood, five spent in growing up, and the rest in pretending to be a man I doubt I’ll ever be. All this while seeing other men like me, even my father, silently walk through this dark.
I think I’m still waiting for that dawn to come. And the world sleeps by.
A wonderful read that calls out exactly what's wrong with our society when it comes to how they view and treat men.