The Anchor
Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says, “I’ll try again tomorrow”
Mary Anne Radmacher
Us blokes seem to operate via an unwritten rule book when it comes to our mental health. It’s a rule book that’s been transmitted through the generations and is reinforced in our friendships. We are taught to wear a mask of invincibility so that we can be seen as the rock, the provider, the stoic one who is immune to the effects of hard times. We are taught not to be a burden and to just get on with it.
There have been multiple times throughout my life where I found myself living by that rule book, displaying to the world an image of who I thought I should be, when inside the truth was somewhat different. I was hurting, I was struggling but I was afraid to let that out and I was afraid that I’d be judged as being somewhat less of a man and I was afraid to seek help. I wrapped the hurt around me like it was a coat of armour. That it was my duty to carry that weight alone.
That armour, as it turns out is not protective, the hurt can not be managed that way. For me the fear of seeking help actually became an anchor and that anchor nearly drowned me.
I felt so alone in my darkest moments. I suspect that this is true for anyone who finds themself wrapped in adversity and who is afraid to seek help. The isolation is a hard weight to bear and for many Men that weight is the burden of a devastating story that they face alone. These are the stories and the journeys of real men, they are our fathers, our brothers, our sons and our mates.
In New Zealand the cost of this isolation paints an horrific picture. Men are nearly three times more likely to die by suicide than women. For young men it is one of the leading causes of death. It is crazy and so deeply sad to think of all that loss that comes from a disease they are unable to control. Young men, oftentimes, trapped in a silent battle with an overwhelming sense of having nowhere to turn. Us blokes are notoriously bad at asking for help, we are significantly less likely than women in our life to seek professional support.
It begs the question, why is this happening? It’s that rulebook that we falsely subscribe to that attaches the anchor to us. We fear that admitting we’re struggling will be seen as a sign of weakness. We have the misplaced belief that we will be a burden to others, forgetting that we don’t have to be the unbreakable rock and that we too are allowed to crack from time to time. We tell stories that are just not true, convincing ourselves that our pain is ours alone to carry. And this of course just increases the weight of our anchor until we can carry it no more and start to fall.
The strength we believe we are seeking in hanging tough might just be our greatest weakness. Perhaps the most courageous thing we can do is to turn to those who love us and let them know that we’re not okay. Confiding in them that our anchor is sinking us that we can no longer carry it alone. Our real strength may in fact be in exposing our vulnerability and asking others to help us RISE.
Of course this is so much easier said than done. To throw out that old rule book and join a new game that we don’t know how to play is a monumental challenge. It can feel too overwhelming and we can be lost just trying to find a place to start. Maybe the best we can do is take small steps, building confidence as we shift the goal posts and maybe those small steps might inspire others to move with us.
It took me too long to seek help when I was falling and I’m just lucky that the consequence of that fall didn’t leave behind another sad story for which there is no return. I wish I had the courage to be honest. As I look back on it there were three simple steps that if I’d been brave enough I should have taken.
Be honest: When asked “how are you” I shouldn’t have brushed it off with “Im fine” and quickly changed the topic, made a joke, presenting the mask and not the man. I wish I’d been brave enough to say “It’s hard and I could use your help”.
Don’t try to forget: I was doing everything I could to pretend the hurt wasn’t there. I’d avoid photo’s, saying his name, talking about him. I was trying to deny the love and life had ever been there. All this avoidance was not sustainable and in not dealing with it I broke.
Trust: I needed to lean into the relationships I had and not away. Trust that their care and love for me was what was needed and understand that moving away was isolating and would further darken the room.
I don’t have anything special about me, but I have learned through experience and I’m doing what I can to make that a force for good. I don’t know if it helps but now when I see or sense that someone is hurting I try to be brave for them, giving them a trusted and safe place to be vulnerable. Just like there are three things I wish I’d done, I now have three things I try to do.
Check in: If I get the “I’m fine” response and know or believe that’s not true I try to gently nudge a little further. It might be as simple as saying “it feels like something tough for you right now?”. It’s a simple question to try and show that it’s okay to share.
Listen without fixing: If someone does open up, it’s my job to listen. I’m not a trained professional with the skills to advise. I’m a mate who cares and just wants to try to understand. Letting them know that I’m here and I want to listen.
Share my journey: By doing what I’m doing, sharing what I’ve lived through I am hoping that with every step I take and by having the courage to be vulnerable that it might just inspire someone to lean in and understand that we rise together.
These steps are at the very heart of the mission. It’s about creating a new kind of strength. Allowing our authentic self to be on display. It’s about connection, honesty, trust and the shared humanity we all have with us. It’s about living in a world where no one feels alone, lost and so far into the dark that they can not RISE.
We Rise Together
To learn more about my journey, you can purchase chapters of my memoir at the link below.