Disappearing Men
Notes on absence
Over the last thirty-odd years, I’ve watched a generation of men quietly disappear, losing friends one by one in ways that now feel grimly predictable. Nearly all of them were men, many to suicide, some to easily avoidable diseases related to alcohol and drug misuse. Many of them were estranged from their families, often divorced men in their fifties with grown-up children they had lost contact with. These were men in crisis, men whose connection with the world was mostly experienced at the bars they propped up or drunkenly leaned upon. But, most importantly, they were often great friends, men I trusted, with whom I felt some common bond.
None of them were particularly dramatic; there were no cries for help. Almost all of them, without exception, just slowly faded into non-existence. Here one minute, gone the next. There would be a great funeral, drunken affairs, and family members of the deceased would often be shocked by the turnout, as all the other regulars would be there to raise a glass in memory of one of their own. Others, who were maybe a little less garrulous at the bar, might attract just a few mourners. And if it was a suicide, well, that always draws a good turnout. Suddenly, everyone claimed to be the deceased’s best friend.
Many men are disappearing long before they die.
Most of these men died alone, just as they lived alone. I’m a firm believer that one of the biggest drivers of alcoholism is loneliness, and that loneliness in its more extreme forms can eventually become lethal. I think of these men as disappearing, and these disappearing men are everywhere. It’s generational. For decades, it continues, and seemingly, no one cares.
In my recent novel, I found myself circling similar themes. I hadn’t set out to write a novel about male isolation, quite the opposite. I based the protagonist on an amalgamation of what I perceive as a fairly average man. However, in doing so, it seems I held up a mirror to the people I see around me, and perhaps to parts of myself. Maybe fiction gave me just enough distance to articulate something that often goes unspoken: that many men are disappearing long before they die.
The statistics on this topic are well known. Since the late 1990s, the leading cause of death among men under 50 has been suicide, and 75% of all suicides in the UK are men. When concerns about this are raised on talk shows or at a political level, the default reaction seems to be one of mockery and casual dismissal.
There has been progress, yes, campaigns focused on male vulnerability, breaking down the stigma of emotional repression, encouraging men to “open up.” The creation of “safe spaces” is often presented as the solution. But I find myself wondering if we’re heading in the right direction.
Emotional repression, of course, is bad for us. But is the performative unburdening of feelings, a kind of therapeutic exhibitionism, any healthier? The rise of online incel culture shows us just how toxic the unfiltered airing of grievances can become. And I suspect most of the men I’ve lost wouldn’t have gone anywhere near a talking circle or therapy group. After all, aren’t these concepts the polar opposite of every instinct towards self-reliance that is hard-wired into the male psyche?
I’m a firm believer that one of the biggest drivers of alcoholism is loneliness, and that loneliness in its more extreme forms can eventually become lethal.
I saw something on my last visit to my hometown of Hastings, something called Men’s Shed, an organisation that was set up in Australia in the 1990s to combat loneliness in older men, and has since branched out to include men generally. The focus is on doing stuff because, you know, men like doing stuff, but with an eye on reducing loneliness and isolation. Oddly, it made me chuckle, because it seems there is a crossover between the disappearance of men-only working men’s clubs and the launch of this organisation, which focuses on places for men to be together and do manly things.
I’m not saying I have any answers, only observations. I do think if you can replace loneliness with purpose, many of these disappearing men wouldn’t disappear at all. Therapy is only a part of the conversation. Talking about feelings and issues might well be very therapeutic, but isn’t having a place and purpose infinitely more useful?
Simon J. Houlton is the author of the novel The Night Swimmer, which explores male isolation, addiction, and psychological collapse.
Bravo!! That’s a great piece Simon and says what I’ve been trying to find the words to say for a long time.
One passage in particular stood out: “…is the performative unburdening of feelings, a kind of therapeutic exhibitionism, any healthier?” I doubt it. That appeals to a certain kind of man, someone looking for attention and not for help.
“And I suspect most of the men I’ve lost wouldn’t have gone anywhere near a talking circle or therapy group. After all, aren’t these concepts the polar opposite of every instinct towards self-reliance that is hard-wired into the male psyche?” I think we forget, or liberal progressives forget, that we are at a base level animals smeared over with a thin veneer of civilisation.
I was invited along to a “men’s group” it was supposed to blend doing men things - ‘giving men the space to be men’ - with space to talk but it soon descended in to psychobabble.
I often feel many men have lost their role in society; heavy industries have all but died out and somehow stacking shelves in Tesco or manning reception in the local leisure centre doesn’t quite cut-it for the instinctive hunter-gatherers that we all once were.