The lonely rider walks inside the room and takes a seat:
—I was given your number couple of months ago, but only now have I decided to call you.
—What kept you so long?
—I wanted to handle my issues by myself. I wanted to be strong.
I’ve seen this so many times: the family man struggling to make sense of a world that is collapsing around him. And yet, as a man, he needs to handle his own shit by himself, alone. That’s what defines a man anyway, right? Or not?
There is a particular image of masculinity that many men grow up carrying. A man should be strong, independent, dependable. He should provide, protect, make decisions and remain standing when everything around him seems to be falling apart. He is allowed to be tired, perhaps, but not overwhelmed. He can be angry, but sadness, fear and helplessness are not welcomed. He learns to keep everything to himself.
He goes to work, takes care of the family, answers the phone, makes decisions and reassures everyone that things will be fine. His wife may not know how frightened he is. His children see a father who has everything under control. His friends see a man who knows what he is doing. Everybody has someone to lean on. But who does he lean on?
Behind the strong face though may be something quite different happening. Chaos, disappointment, fear and anger accumulate, with little opportunity for expression. Feelings that cannot be acknowledged cannot simply disappear. They may return in other forms: irritability, emotional distance, sudden outbursts, sleeplessness, self-criticism or a growing sense of emptiness. As Freud beautifully stated, “Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later on uglier ways.”
Richard Reichbart, in his paper On Men Crying: Lear’s Agony (2006), explores the psychological restrictions that prevent men from expressing sadness and mourning. The prohibition against crying is not merely about tears. It reflects a deeper difficulty in allowing oneself to experience vulnerability without feeling that one’s masculinity is threatened.
The idealisation of strength can become a defence against deeper experiences of vulnerability and helplessness. Man may become so invested in maintaining an image of himself as strong that acknowledging his emotional needs becomes almost unbearable.
In psychoanalysis particular attention is given to inhibited emotional expression and aggression that becomes directed inward. Feelings that cannot find a way into communication may instead emerge through self-attack, withdrawal or hostility. In the analytic relationship, these feelings can gradually become accessible without demanding that the patient expose himself before he is ready.
Winnicott’s idea of the capacity to be alone offers another interesting perspective. In The Capacity to Be Alone (1958), he describes how the ability to be alone develops through the experience of being alone in the presence of a dependable other. In other words, emotional independence does not necessarily mean emotional isolation. We become more capable of standing on our own when we have experienced that somebody can be there with us.
The lonely rider is not alone because nobody is around him. He may have a wife, children, friends and colleagues. His loneliness comes from the belief that he must remain emotionally inaccessible, even to those closest to him.
And perhaps this is where we need to reconsider what defines a man.
Is it his ability to carry everything without asking for help? His capacity to absorb every disappointment without showing pain? Or has society confused emotional isolation with strength?
Seeking help does not make a man less of a man. Acknowledging fear, sadness or helplessness does not take away his capacity to protect, provide or care. Perhaps real strength begins when a man no longer needs to pretend that nothing hurts.
The lonely rider does not need someone to take the reins. He needs somewhere he can make a pause.
And someone who will listen and ride along with him.