Boys Don't Cry: Part I

Men, mental health, grief and the beginning of a lengthy conversation with a social worker to help sort it all out

Jan 05, 2024

Part two of this feature is located here.

I don’t cry.

I didn’t cry when my mother died. Others did. My sister was hysterical. I didn’t.

My daughter cried when my father-in-law died. So did my wife. It was her father, after all.

I didn’t cry when either child was born. It’s not that I didn’t feel joy or wonder. For the first one, my wife was rushed in for an emergency c-section, so I was preoccupied as to how many people were coming out of the OR. We booked the second c-section in advance1, and though it was pretty fucking trippy to hear crying, see nothing and then have the doctor lift a baby from the abyss, I wasn’t overcome.

I don’t remember the last time I cried. I didn’t cry when I fell on the hard concrete of my garage a few months ago2. I didn’t cry at the height of my own pandemic-induced anxiety-cum-rage at the collision of overwhelming work expectations with ever-present family madness.

I’m not sure why this is. For a while, I think it’s because I didn’t allow myself to cry. Macho manly bullshit drilled into my head by, well, me. I didn’t live in one of those houses where my father told me to “Be a man.” There was none of that. I think, for a while, I convinced myself that it wasn’t okay to cry.

At some point, and I can’t tell you when or why, I stopped believing in that3. It was almost too foolish to have an opinion over. And, look, I have a lot of opinions, but whether or not I should allow myself to cry seems like such a minor league concern.

Crying is a natural reaction to extreme news, positive or negative, but let’s stick with the bad stuff for now. Physical or mental or emotional pain, bad news, death, sadness…all valid reasons for a cry. It’s the physical manifestation of that extreme; if hysterical laughter is the reaction to funny then uncontrollable crying is manifested from the extreme sadness.

Maybe extreme is a loaded word. Or maybe it’s on a sliding scale. My sister cries more than my wife, but I would say that my sister’s emotional stress levels trigger more easily. I also believe — and my sister would likely agree — that my wife copes with things ~~better~~ differently. That’s not to say that my wife doesn’t cry; it’s that the frequency and likelihood are lesser. For a long time, I think my wife felt like there was something wrong with me, that I wasn’t in tune enough with my emotions to just let go of the wheel and let them take over.

Me? It just never occurs to me emotionally to cry. I’m certain that there are others like me, though they are lesser in numbers than, say, my sister. Why is that?

The answer is right in front of you

That’s easy, stupid. You’re a male. Your sister and wife are females. Case closed. Issue over. Put up the subscribe and comment links.

It’s the easy answer to a complex question. Men don’t cry. Society says we’re supposed to be the stronger gender. Boys don’t cry. Be a man.

There is a deeply embedded story arc within The Sopranos, one of my favorite television shows ever, about Tony’s ability (or inability) to manage his emotions beyond rage. Tony longs for the days of Gary Cooper, the strong silent type, yet he probably cried more than any character on that show.

My therapist once gave me the book I Don’t Want to Talk About It by Terrence Real to read as homework. I’ve since lost my very well dog-eared copy, but this helped to frame my own mental health course and understand what I was feeling. The book delves into men, depression and emotions through the lens of he and his father, with whom he had a difficult relationship over the years. Real, who is in his 70s now, frames his father as emotionally closed off. In one passage, his father told him and his brother about what to do if a person went overboard from a boat and it’s a metaphor underpinning the entire book:

A drowning person will grip you if you get in too close. They’ll pull you down with them. You should throw them something, a rope, a life preserver. But don’t touch them, don’t go in after them.

I got the symbolism immediately. Guard your emotions. Don’t get too close to the reason why you’re drowning, just get to a safe place because you could pull yourself further down by opening the doors and revealing what really haunts you.

Real’s thesis is that men don’t deal with their emotions and depression because they aren’t supposed to be depressed.

Few things about men and women seem more dissimilar than the way we tend to handle our feelings. Why should depression, a disorder of feeling – in psychiatric language, an affective disorder – be handled in the same way by both sexes when most other emotional issues are not. While many men are depressed in ways that are similar to women, there are even more men who express depression in less well-recognized ways, ways that are most often overlooked and misunderstood but nevertheless do great harm. What are these particularly male formers of depression? What are their causes? Is the etiology of the disorder the same for both sexes? I think not. Just as men and women often express depression different, their pathways toward depression seem distinct as well.
Traditional gender socialization in our culture asks both boys and girls to “halve themselves.” Girls are allowed to maintain emotional expressiveness and cultivate connection. But they are systematically discouraged from fully developing and exercising their public, assertive selves – their “voice,” as it is often called. Boys, by contrast, are greatly encouraged to develop their public, assertive selves, but they are systematically pushed away from the full exercise of emotional expressiveness and the skills for making and appreciating deep connection.

You see, women are supposed to be the criers. Men? We’re supposed to be the strong ones. Society says so.

Not so fast my friend…

Except that’s all bullshit, right? Not Real’s book, but the societal expectations…the cultural stereotypes about gender and the stigma applied to those who do is a barbaric relic of the 20th century. While the macho bullshit may be written into our code, it’s not the only reason why we don’t cry.

It turns out emotional trauma can do it. The author of this article for Psychology Today writes that it’s a psychological defense mechanism that protects a person from unpleasant feelings, either consciously or unintentionally, that could dredge up experiences from the past. She cites a person kidnapped, but not killed, by Jeffrey Dahmer who could no longer cry after being rescued.

Depression itself is cited as a reason, as are antidepressants.

It could also be a personality issue. A 2017 study published in a clinical neuroscience journal studied 475 people who could not cry. Researchers found that these people had less connections with others, less empathy and less social support. Most thought it affected them negatively.

The analysis also showed that being male and lacking empathy were independent predictors of tearlessness.

So, maybe men are naturally conditioned not to cry.

Dirt Nap Q&A: Scott Janssen

Scott Janssen is a social worker who has spent more than three decades counseling people at the end of life. He has also written extensively about men, grief and accompanying emotions. Scott’s answers are thoughtful and insightful, and I’m breaking up our Q&A over the next two editions to give them the appropriate space.

In his book “I Don’t Want to Talk About It,” Terry Real writes about how men aren’t supposed to be vulnerable and we don’t recognize depression in men because it’s unmanly. You could easily apply these statements to the concepts of grief or mourning, couldn’t you?

Yes. Though when talking about depression there can be an unfortunate stigma around anything relating to mental health. A stigma that implies that there is something wrong with you, some kind of flaw or weakness, or that you’re showing a lack of character by not “sucking it up” and handling it “like a man.” These kinds of stereotypes are inaccurate, hurtful, and can increase a person’s suffering. Unfortunately, they are also common. Moreover, they are often internalized by men to the point where they say these things to and about themselves.

At least in the case of grief, there is some limited social recognition that a man will be on the ropes for a while after experiencing the death of a loved one. That sadness, disorientation, loss of motivation, fear and so on are normal and understandable. At least for a short time.

Unfortunately, any slack given in this regard tends to be short-lived since our culture has little patience with the fact that grief and mourning are an extended process, not something you wrap up in a couple weeks. When someone shows up back at work, things are not ‘back to normal’ but often people around them act as though they are. Men may be pressured, or pressure themselves, to ‘get over it’ or ‘get a grip’. They may try to avoid being seen as vulnerable, emotional, or, heaven forbid, in need of support. Men may bluff it, act like things are okay when they are not, which can leave someone feeling isolated and out of synch.

This kind of pressure is generally pervasive in our culture, but it can be even worse in settings that prize an appearance of toughness, self-reliance, control, and the suppression of emotions. For example, in “macho” settings like the miliary, law enforcement or emergency services or sectors of business, healthcare or academia where an emphasis may be on competition, intellectual achievement or staying cool under pressure, the stigma against vulnerability may be even worse.

Psychologist, Judith Stillion, studied social learning in children and identified four core messages boys are given about being male. She called one of these messages "the stiff upper lip syndrome," in which boys are taught that they must always be strong and stoical in the face of difficulty, accept pain without complaint, and never, ever, feel or appear vulnerable.

No surprise, then, that many men learn to cover over feelings of vulnerability with stoicism, minimizing their emotions, numbing out or dissociating, or somaticizing, which is a fancy way of saying that you stuff your feelings into your body (think headaches, GI distress, elevated nervous system stress, the list goes on).

Anger is another common, often unconscious, strategy for covering over vulnerability. Unlike sadness, anger is an action-oriented emotion. It can feel energizing and give one a false sense of strength, even though underneath you may feel hurt and afraid.

Many clinicians consider anger to be a “secondary emotion” in that it covers up something which is more primary but too scary to reveal. Rather than admit vulnerability, it’s easier to feel anger. I’ve found that if you scratch the surface of a man’s anger you often find things like vulnerability, sadness, shame, grief, guilt, a sense of powerlessness, loneliness, disconnection, feeling left out. Very often you find old wounds including those from psychological trauma.

There are gender differences in our emotional reactions to every situation. Generally speaking, women tend to be more emotive while men are more stoic and keep to themselves. Thinking of my own mother’s passing, I was largely quiet and numb through her services while my sister was far more emotional. I don’t remember my parents embedding any sense of this way or that way when we were kids, but clearly, we learned it. Where are the societal influences that code men to react differently than women?

When you say you don’t remember your parents embedding messages about gender differences, that’s common. There’s a story about a couple fish swimming near the edge of a lake. They pass by an older fish who asks as he passes, “How’s the water today guys?” The two fish look at each other, perplexed, and one asks, “What the hell is water?”

It’s like that with messages about gender which is why this kind of social learning is so powerful. It’s in the air we breathe, so much a part of our culture that we often don’t even notice it. And it’s not necessarily learning that is transmitted explicitly as in “this is how boys are; this is how girls are.” It can be subtle, a look, a tone of voice, what gets positive attention versus what gets negative attention. Messages can get embedded in the toys we play with, the clothes our parents buy us, the games we play, what occupations we imagine pursuing – when I grow up, I want to be a…fill in the blank.

Boys model behavior based on what they see fathers, big brothers and other adult males do. They may imitate sports figures or movie stars. Who were your heroes growing up, Jared? Mine were cowboys like the Lone Ranger, superheroes like Batman or athletes like Mohamed Ali. Or those those cool 1970s detectives like Shaft or Baretta who usually wound up beating the crap out of bad guys. They were tough, aggressive, competitive, action oriented. They kept their own consul and were not interested in processing emotions, accepting help, empathetic connection, or talking things through.

Think about the stories you liked versus the ones your sister liked. What did you get trophies for? When did you get pats on the back, approving versus disapproving looks?

Let’s go back to Stillion’s core messages. Another one is the “powerful loner” where a man must be in control at all times, self-reliant, able to handle any situation without asking for help. Another is the “protector.” A man must protect those who are important to him and never trouble them with his own concerns. Lastly, a man must be ready to overcome any challenge without fear.

Now, these messages can have a positive side around things like duty, responsibility, self-control, standing up for what’s right and protecting others. But they can also be a strait jacket. If we are not allowed to feel sadness or ask for help, if being vulnerable and afraid means that we are weak, if we see ourselves as having failed if we cannot protect loved ones from life’s inevitable pain, if asking for help and support means that we can’t hack it or aren’t able to – I hate this phrase –- “man up,” where does that leave us when we are feeling devastated and confused by grief?

It’s also worth being aware that some scientists and researchers believe gender roles and identity can be traced to evolutionary biology and evolutionary psychology. I don’t find these arguments convincing or at all compelling. As you can tell, I come down on the side of social learning and gender acculturation. But the biology-evolution crowd makes some interesting points. Rather than seeing this stuff simply as nature versus nurture, I think it’s likely more nature and nurture. Just a lot more nurture.

Part two of this interview is here.

Griever’s Digest

Not all editions of Dirt Nap are me writing and opining. We have something here called the Griever’s Digest, where our readers share their grief journeys. If you’re grieving someone or something, consider opening up to our community. Drop me a line at jaredpaventi at gmail dot com or by replying to this email.

Final thoughts on finality…

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

— Dylan Thomas, And death shall have no dominion