As a Man, I’ve Always Struggled to Ask for Help

“Look at how much you’ve changed.” I was deep into a night shift as a police officer, and my colleague had made this observation. He meant it as a compliment.

I felt proud that one of the kingpins of our team thought highly of me. Looking back, I shouldn’t have. He was praising me for being arrogant and aggressive. He liked that I enjoyed fighting with criminals. I joined in with his derogatory comments about women.

I’d become a caricature of what I thought a tough guy ought to be, and my team members were lapping it up.

Why I wanted to be tough and accepted.

During my school years, I was bullied relentlessly. I was insulted, beaten, and told to kill myself daily. Each blow and harsh word chipped away at my self-esteem until none remained.

Girls were especially cruel. They’d call me ugly and disgusting to my face and behind my back. I remember sitting in a science class when a girl sucker punched me with a ring on for extra damage to my jaw.

They wouldn’t let me sit near them even if no other seats were available. Hearing them giggle while talking about me became a regular background chorus.

What tortured me for years is that I let it all happen. I never defended myself. I never confronted anybody, and the thought of confrontation terrified me.

I’d go home in a quiet rage. Once I was alone in my bedroom, the tears of sadness and rage would flow.

Nobody hated me as much as I hated myself.

With this history in mind, you can see why being accepted as a tough guy in the police was intoxicating to me. But the monster I’d become was too scared to ask for help, and the consequences were severe.

The night that broke me.

It wasn’t long after my “praise” that I was called to the scene of two teenage girls who had jumped from a tower block. I was unable to speak of this incident for 2 decades. One was already dead, but one was dying. She was taken immediately to hospital. I had to guard the other one, where she lay for the next 4 hours.

For much of that time, it was her and me. I had time to observe her horrific injuries and to see how she was dressed. I thought about why she chose to end it all on this wet and dirty sidewalk. I even wondered if she was cold.

I wondered about it for 20 years.

At one point, another officer asked if I was okay because I was white as a sheet. I lied and said I was fine.

I returned to the station and finished paperwork for cases earlier that night — a minor traffic accident and a few nuisances. Those incidents felt like a different lifetime now.

After telling the Sergeant I was still okay, I left the station and walked to my car. As soon as I got outside, I started crying, but I stifled my sobs when an early morning jogger went past. I got in my car and cried like a baby.

I cried when I got home and told my dad. I cried again when I told my mum. I cried most days for years.

Forced to admit something was wrong.

After a few weeks, I had to admit I was struggling. It was affecting my work, and I was dreading going to any more jumpers. I was referred to a therapist.

Treatment for PTSD is complex. Part of the illness involves being unable to confront reminders of the trauma. That means talking about the trauma is impossible. Yet therapy works by being honest and talking.

You see the problem.

It turned out the therapist wasn’t very good. I felt lucky that I could distract her from going anywhere near my real issues. I padded out every session with nonsense. I said I understood that real bravery lies in asking for help and being vulnerable. I waffled on for hours so she couldn’t get to the root of my problems.

Just making stuff up.

After six sessions, the police stopped paying for them, and I returned to work. I’d tricked everyone, but I hadn’t helped myself.

My dad’s death and silent nighttime crying.

On the night my mum called to tell me my dad had died, I tried to hold it together. I wanted to be strong for her, and I still hated asking for help.

My mum asked me and my partner to wait in the bedroom and look after our dog while the police and paramedics did their thing. She tried to protect me from the sight of my dad’s body, but I saw him lying dead on the living room floor anyway.

As I sat in the bedroom, I felt numb. I kept repeating to myself that I had to stay strong. I wanted to be the kind of guy who is a pillar of strength, even at his father’s death scene.

I nearly cracked when I heard my dad’s body bag brush against the wall in the hallway. That was the last sound I ever heard that related to him. A gentle whoosh that came with an avalanche of pain.

When I entered the living room and could see where his body had laid, it was too much, and I broke down. Not only was the situation traumatic, but I’d hoped to get through the rest of my life without seeing any more death.

Instead of looking after my mum, she and my partner had to comfort and help me to the car to take me home. I could barely stand and was close to a litany of flashbacks.

I felt so bad about crying that night that I went back to bottling my pain up. I’d cry in private. Whimpering in bed in the early hours of the morning or sobbing in the living room while my partner slept. Every day, my mum would ask if I was okay, and I’d tell her I was alright. I’d never admit I was struggling until after the worst had passed.

It turned out she was doing the same thing. We were torturing ourselves so as not to make the other person worry.

However, crying alone late at night was no way to live. My mood was getting worse by the day due to lack of sleep and the pain I was in. My biggest fear was a recurrence of the decade-long depression I’d worked so hard to overcome. I couldn’t risk that kind of life-threatening pain again.

I had to learn to be honest with those I trusted.

How men like me can learn to open up.

With the fear of depression lurking in the background, I took a risk and admitted to my mum and partner that I was struggling every day. It felt awkward and dangerous, but these feelings were temporary. They soon gave way to relief. I’d released the pressure.

Once I’d given myself permission to grieve and feel pain, I began to process my 20-year PTSD as well as the pain around my father’s death. Circumstances dictated that I was forced to stop playing the role of a “tough guy,” and it was the best thing to ever happen to me.

Society preaches to turn the other cheek. People claim to like sensitive men who are in touch with their feelings. They say real strength comes in walking away from conflict.

But is any of this true?

At the same time, we also hero-worship tough guys from Rocky Balboa to James Bond.

When I watch dating shows on TV, the women always talk about wanting a “real man.” They don’t mean one who is okay with crying into his cornflakes. They specify they want a man who will throw them on the bed. In other words, they want the stereotype.

How are men supposed to know what’s expected of them when society itself has no idea? They’re left to guess, which results in them shutting down to those around them.

Bottling up emotions can lead to loneliness, depression, violence, and suicide.

The solution for me is simple to write but often excruciating to attain.

Finding inner peace through opening up.

If you’re at peace with yourself and the pressure is released, you no longer have to act in a certain way. You don’t care about superficial measurements of what it means to be a man. You reject toxic people from your life because you no longer fear being alone.

Most importantly, you no longer need to bottle everything up to seem brave and stoic. You can finally just BE — and that might be the most attractive trait of them all.

I’m proud to say I’m now an open book. I can talk about all my trauma. Pain and mental illness thrive in the shadows. They feed on secrecy.

I found inner peace by focusing on learning who I was. What’s left when you remove my uniform, identity, and health? The part of me that can’t be destroyed. The part that refuses to give up.

The part that brings inner peace.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer

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