Male psychology illustrated by a real-life example
A man came to see me for therapy. He wanted to “figure himself out.” Requests like that always make me wary because they sound so vague. Very often, I hear something else in that phrase: that there is something wrong with me and it needs fixing. After all, when everything is fine, there is nothing to figure out—you simply live your life. But if there is something to figure out, it implies that something isn’t quite right. Alright then—let’s figure it out.
When a man says he wants to sort himself out, he might add that he isn’t living, but merely existing. When I ask what “existing” means to him, he replies that it implies a life without purpose. When I try to find out what his particular purposeless life looks like, I sense anger and irritation in his voice—emotions he tries to hide and suppress. He answers irritably—after all, how is one supposed to answer that question? It is as if I ought to know the right answer. He expects the same from me as he does from himself.
It seems to me there is a vast chasm—a void, even—between the desire to “figure myself out,” the phrase “aimless life,” and the question of “how to answer.” A person ought to be in that void, yet they are nowhere to be found. Or perhaps they are there but in hiding—from themselves and from others—pretending to be someone whose life is, naturally, anything but aimless. Someone for whom every step, and even every breath, has—and must have—a purpose and a utility. One cannot exist without utility; one cannot be useless. Nor can one exist without a purpose. Otherwise, one’s life is aimless.
Male psychology is very often about control.
For such men, maintaining control is also crucial—an endless need to control everything and everyone. Everything must remain within their field of vision and reach. Anything beyond their control is frightening and is therefore dismissed as worthless. Yet, most importantly, he must control himself; it is precisely the prospect of relinquishing control over himself that terrifies him the most.
Instinctively, in sessions with such clients, I take control, mirroring the way they treat themselves. I rarely ask such men what they want, as I mirror their own attitude toward themselves. It is difficult for me to *feel* during these sessions, as I mirror their tension. It rarely occurs to these men that “existing” means constantly maintaining control, not knowing what you want, and not feeling anything. That is certainly not what it means to *live*.
We are talking about friendship. As one gets older, the circle of friends tends to shrink. My client rarely stops to consider why this happens. He claims that all his friends want something from him—and why would he want friends who use him? So, he cuts off contact. He fails to realize that friendship, like any relationship, is always a cocktail of mixed emotions. It isn’t just about affection, laughter, and pleasure; it also involves conflict and anger. But does a man who keeps everything under control have the right to feel emotions—especially anger? It becomes clear where this kind of existence stems from: there is no room for friendship, and emotions are suppressed. Friendship and emotions exist wherever there is life. Yet, where there is life, there is inevitably loss, pain, and disappointment.
This man says, “What am I supposed to do—cry?—if my friends treat me this way?” And I ask, “But if you do cry, what will happen?”
Male psychology and sobering statistics
Numerous studies indicate that only one-third of men diagnosed with depression seek psychological help. The remaining two-thirds—as my male clients put it—likely “cope” on their own. Only one in nine men sees a psychotherapist, whereas for women, the figure is one in five. However, there is a promising trend: in England, this gap has virtually closed in recent years.
The habit of handling things on one’s own seems hardwired into a man’s very code. If you handle it, you are in control; if you don’t, you will be controlled. Such a rigid connection makes the flow of life impossible within a frozen psyche. That is precisely how mere “existence” is born.
“When was the last time you were happy?” I ask the client. A sincere answer often comes toward the end of the session, once the hope arises that a “wrong” answer won’t lead to their feelings being dismissed. “When was the last time you were happy?” I ask again. “When I was doing something,” he replies. “And what were you doing?” I ask for clarification.
The last time my client felt happy was while putting together a jigsaw puzzle. He once spent three hours on one, yet immediately explained that he hadn’t actually *done* anything during that time—that it had been a waste of time. That remark holds so much bitter truth about how happiness is reduced to “nothing,” and how life is measured not by happiness, but by the results of time spent productively. But as the Akira Kurosawa film *Ikiru* asks: is that really living?
