In Which I, A Man, Talk

I had a nightmare that I was in a studio with Caitlin Moran and Lorraine Kelly. TV cameras were trained on us. A coffee machine was lurking in the background for no particular reason.

They wanted to talk about me. More specifically, they wanted to talk about us. They wanted to talk about men.

Men don’t talk enough, you see. That’s our problem. We don’t know what it’s like to be in the ladies’ toilets — where everybody is exchanging advice and tampons. (Ladies, I appreciate that this might not be what it’s like in the women’s toilets but I’m just going by Caitlin’s account. I really don’t know what goes on in there.)

Men can go and speak to a friend for hours, Caitlin and Lorraine inform me, and then come home and not recall a single thing they’ve been talking about. Perhaps we just don’t want to tell you, I’d like to say. But I’m mute. Frozen in my chair.

Men are like dogs, they tell me — good and loyal. For a moment, I imagine going on a daytime talk show and announcing, with cheerful insouciance, that women are like dogs.

It’s true — I don’t really like talking about my emotional life. Some men do. We all know them. But I don’t. It’s not because I feel ashamed, or stigmatised, or marginalised. It’s because I end up feeling more confused than when I started talking. So, talking creates more talking but not more clarity. That’s why I prefer to write about something if I really want to get it off my chest.

Sure, men have problems, I do my best to tell Caitlin and Lorraine. We kill ourselves at considerably higher rates than women. It can be in part because of male reticence. We’ve all heard of blokes who have committed suicide and left bewildered questions in their wake as people try to understand what went wrong. (I should point out here that if you do need someone to confide in, help is out there.)

That’s bad. It should be resisted. But to turn this into the Key to all Menthologies is so superficial that it’s appalling how often it’s done. As I wrote for American Conservative regarding the similarly facile “men need therapy” meme:

In a world where men are finding it more difficult to meet romantic partners, sustain relationships, make friends, hold down jobs, avoid addiction, et cetera it is hardly surprising if mental health suffers, and if one thinks this can be explained by their internal features more than technological change, rampant fatherlessness, lost civic institutions, economic precarity and a supply-side boom in cheap, hard drugs that is absurdly childish.

A small example. Caitlin Moran is very proud of her point that women talk to each other in the ladies’ toilets while men don’t talk to each other in the gents’. But how many fellas have the time, money and friends to go out at all — at least with any regularity. That — the isolation, the loneliness, the stress — is the bigger problem than what we say — or don’t — while we’re taking a piss.

I’m sure someone like Ms Moran is well-meaning. I think what happens is that she benefits from regular emotional divulgence so she thinks this is the natural, healthy state for human beings. A lot of women seem to look at men and think, “Why can’t they just be more like us?”

But there is no one model of mental health. As I wrote for Quillette in a piece on stoicism (in the slightly stilted tone I must have considered “professional” at the time):

Mental health is more complex than “repression” versus “expression”. First, there are differences in how we experience feelings. Depressive rumination is more common among women that among men which can make them more vulnerable to stress and depression. I would not recommend “Stop Thinking About It” as a mental health campaign slogan but it complicates the picture. Rational coping as well as emotional suppression is more common among men than among women, and can be a productive response to the struggles of life. Psychological needs vary depending on the person and the situation — certainly not just between the sexes — and there is no single, simple model of how one should cope with hardship and pain. We can all agree that no one should feel shame for talking, crying or seeking professional help, but we should not pathologize aversion to doing so under unwieldly banners like “toxic masculinity”.

I want to express all of this to Caitlin and Lorraine, but I don’t think they are listening. They just nod and smile — pleased with themselves for bearing witness to a man talking.

Caitlin says something about being “proud of your willy”. First — I never want to hear the word “willy” again. Is there any word less dignified? Less adult? Less erotic? It makes me feel ashamed to have one.

I know what it’s like to feel disgusted by your body. I’ve had bulimia and anorexia — the works. But the alternative to shame — certainly a bad thing — isn’t always pride. Pride comes from what we do, not just what we have. It comes from our achievements — the big and the small. You shouldn’t feel ashamed if you have hyperhidrosis, to pick a somewhat silly example, but that doesn’t mean saying, “I’m proud of my sweat!”

I want to say this to Caitlin and Lorraine but they just smile and nod with faces of flamboyant understanding. They don’t care what I’m saying. They just care that I’m talking.

“Cold tonevening yes?” Smiles and nods. “Andrew Tate has a cautious fridge.” Thoughtful nods. “Gilles Deleuze was an excellent handball player.” Smiles and nods. “Bogus wombat came around the park when Christmas shined politely?” Thoughtful nods.

I don’t want to talk any more. I don’t want to talk. I run out of the studio, ignoring Caitlin and Lorraine’s protestations, and dash down the corridor — barging into the men’s toilets.

Finally — peace.

A male voice emerges from the stalls.

“So,” it says, “Do you feel proud of your willy?”

I scream and dash from the toilets, towards the open air.