Real men don’t cry?

They are four simple and yet potentially damaging words. They remain embedded in our culture where the expression of emotions, we are implicitly or literally told, should be limited to women and children only. We may revolt against this, relish the thought that a man can feel and share emotions and yet….watch the response of others to a crying man. Many will squirm and shift in their seats, especially other men. They will probably look away or change the subject. Anything to avoid the felt weakness of others being experienced.

Why? What makes emotions the domain of everyone but men? We start this process young. In parks throughout the Island you can hear parents imploring toddlers, especially boys, to ‘be brave’, ‘stop crying’. One client of mine recalled being told by his mother that unless he stopped crying she would give him something to really cry about. These are lessons we learn young, ways of being that are reinforced through popular media.

Our first response to someone’s tears is to thrust a tissue into their hands, men and women. There is a practical aspect to this but there is also a part of us that wants the crying to stop. Tissues are a practical way of achieving that. ‘I see your tears, take this and wipe them away’. So perhaps our relationship with crying is just not a good one.

And yet what do our tears say? We are sad; want to be left alone; are reaching out for support and a true expression of how we are at a given time. Put that way crying sounds important. In Therapy sessions I have found crying to be both painful and positive, sometimes in equal measure. Perhaps we should allow tears to flow and just be with that person. And maybe we should start with our children. 

This article first appeared in Gallery Magazine.

Alone in a crowd

Sitting at Birmingham Airport over half term, where my flight was delayed by a couple of hours, I berated myself for not bringing my Kindle. It also gave me time to people watch, something of a passion for me. After the initial pleasure of watching children excited to be going on holiday, and couples clearly relaxing before flying off somewhere hot, I came to appreciate a very different group. This group was made up of individuals, sat or walking alone, and seemingly lost in the blur of activity. It struck me as odd; that a person could appear alone in such a melee of people and activity. So much happening, to be part of, and yet these individuals stood apart, alone in the crowd.

In our crowded world of open plan offices, social media, family and friends, to list just four pressure points of ‘busy’, can it really be conceivable that any of us can feel alone? It begs the question, what does alone really mean to us? Many of my clients talk of a crushing sense of being lonely and how this makes them feel when no one seems able to understand. They are always part of a group and yet that very fact makes the loneliness seem more gnawing, the impact so much greater and the result, to amplify the sense of being alone.

To understand that is to have experienced it. Loneliness is a state of being, a sense of self that denies context and logic. It simply tells us where we are in relation to ourselves and often without reference to anyone else. That is why it seems inexplicable to others, perhaps. That being alone cannot be cured by more people can be a revelation. It is certainly a first step to finding ourselves in this crowded world. Not being alone starts with the individual; it starts with ‘I’.

The toxic power of jealousy

I was sat next to a stranger recently eating lunch in the Royal Square. She had her mobile nailed to her ear, a growing expression of frustration and anger building in the tone of her voice. Although both she and the other person were getting louder I couldn’t hear both sides of the conversation, but from what she said the topic was clear. I started to feel intrusive, just sitting there, and so moved on, but I was struck by a few phrases she threw into her mobile as I left. ‘He’s just a friend. We reconnected on Facebook. From school. I finish all my messages with an ‘x’ so that means nothing’.

Walking away I heard the one word spat out with the power to pour fuel onto the fire: Jealous. In the appropriately titled song Jealousy, Neil Tennant asks: ‘Where've you been? Who've you seen? You didn't phone when you said you would. Do you lie?’ His questions captured the moment when the void of not knowing, not trusting, gets filled by the all-consuming feeling that the other person is cheating on you.

From where do we get this sense of jealousy? At what point does all that we trusted in the other person evaporate to nothing, replaced by the conviction that hitherto innocent actions and words in fact have a darker, hidden meaning? Perhaps the trust has been broken but it is as likely that, surrounded by life’s warnings that good things must be followed by the descent into disappointment, we brace ourselves for ‘failure’.

Sadly there is sometimes good reason for jealousy; partners can and do let us down. But we shouldn’t live in expectation of it. Perhaps there is the possibility that things really are good, that the other person wants only you and there is no need for jealousy. That possibility can feel very good.

This article first appeared in Gallery Magazine February 2016

Healing from the heart

  The Dalai Lama has been speaking to me. A lot. He finds me through Facebook, Twitter, motivational cards, event posters and the occasional comment from a friend. He certainly has a good deal to say to me but always delivered with a chirpy smile on his face. The very epitome of grace and simplicity. You may well know the kind of posts and cards I mean: ‘When you wake each morning know the day will be a good day and banish those negative thoughts’; ‘Trust in yourself and let the light shine into the darkest places of your life’. Nice.

But I have a problem with these. In part I have a suspicion that the Dalai Lama didn’t say most of these things. Rather someone hopes the words are made powerful because they are attached to someone respected for their spirituality. My main problem is that the words seem empty. Working with a client in the depths of depression or anxiety I wonder how helpful it can be for anyone to suggest that all they need is to think happy to be happy. It belittles the challenges they face, sometimes just to get out of bed.

Friends surely mean well but I feel the power to shame in those words. Implicit in them all is that happiness is the responsibility of the individual. If you cannot cheer up you can only blame yourself for not trying hard enough, for not thinking yourself to happiness.

Perhaps, rather than sharing the supposed thoughts of the famous we just try to find our own. To know those emotions when we are with friends in pain, and to share them, straight from our hearts to their hearts. Tough, for sure, but real and real is often the most healing. 

This article first appeared in Gallery Magazine.