There was my friend James who’d recovered from cancer; both his parents had died within six months of one another.
We had another mutual friend, Howard, whose father was dying.
I called up my three friends and announced: we were going to start a men’s group.
This was the way we’d been brought up, the way that we, as men, were used to talking, but they agreed.
I wonder whether, if he’d had a group like we do, he’d still be with us today.
Two years ago, I attended the funeral of someone I’d known who had taken his own life. He was 40 when he did it. I’d known him since he was 14, his brother one of my closest friends. The night before the funeral, I had dinner with his parents. We ate his favourite meal, a beef casserole, at the kitchen table; at one point, his siblings left the room to practise their speeches. None of them had known he was even unhappy.
At the service I met his best friend. Had he known anything was wrong?
He shook his head. ‘Not at all.’ He needed a new best man for his wedding now, he said, which was in a few weeks.
After the service, we drove off to a pub. We sat around a table with a display of our friend’s life behind us, built from old photographs his father had assembled. Several of my old friends from university were there. No one spoke at first; we were in shock. An hour and a couple of beers later, however, everyone was talking animatedly – about computer games.
I had little interest in the topic, hadn’t played one since my early 20s (Grand Theft Auto 2, which left me dreaming about chainsaws) so I wandered outside and found the friend I’d driven up with from London. He’d recently recovered from cancer, and we spoke about that before another old friend joined us. Later, we went inside to look at the photographs. Many were of the deceased as a child. I found it hard to look at the ones where he was playing with his toddler. I’d become a father recently, too.
For days afterwards, two questions kept returning to my mind: why hadn’t he told anyone he was unhappy? And why, in the face of overwhelming grief, were grown men talking about computer games?
All the men I knew had serious problems to cope with. My close friend Mark, whose brother’s funeral I’d attended, was struggling. He’d just moved to Canada too, where he knew nobody. There was my friend James who’d recovered from cancer; both his parents had died within six months of one another. We had another mutual friend, Howard, whose father was dying. He and I often watched cricket together but, as much as we loved the game, maybe this was a way of not talking about the things that really mattered – just like the computer game talk at the pub. That too seemed to me a way of denying the pain and sorrow we were all feeling, which was ludicrous given that we were at a funeral… of a man who hadn’t talked about his feelings.
I called up my three friends and announced: we were going to start a men’s group.
Among the four of us, I was the only one used to this kind of thing. I’d been going to spiritual retreats for years, had cried in several sharing circles (mostly in California). The first time, at a monastery outside San Diego, I’d barely said a word, watching in silence while others cried freely. Since then, I’d cried all night on ayahuasca retreats, told strangers details about my life I’d rarely shared with anyone. But this was different. We were old friends, had related to one another in the same way for 30 years. Would we be able to connect in a different register? I hoped they’d at least consider it.
Our second problem was location. For a start, we lived in four different countries, which meant we’d have to meet online. Mark lived in Vancouver. James was in London, Howard in Brussels, and I lived in Berlin. Scheduling would be tricky. When I pitched the idea, however, the reaction was unanimous: all three of them were in, without reservation. I think I had underestimated the need.
There were nerves, however. When I created a WhatsApp group, one of them quipped: ‘Are we supposed to talk about hunting and power tools?’ He was embarrassed, I supposed. We weren’t used to consciously being men. What did that even mean?
My idea was that each of us could take it in turns to talk while the others listened
‘A few ground rules,’ I said, at the start of our first gathering. ‘Can we please try to make it a few minutes early for each session?’
‘You’re being very bossy, Rajeev,’ said Howard.
‘It’s because you don’t work for a company,’ said James. ‘You’re not used to meetings.’
‘Why don’t we just start the meet at 8.02?’ said Howard. ‘Then we’re early if we’re on time.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Mark. ‘We’ll all cancel at the last minute anyway with some ridiculous excuse.’
I took a few breaths. I just wanted to make sure we got the most out of the sessions, I explained. My idea was that each of us could take it in turns to talk while the others listened. Afterwards, we would ask questions or comment but, crucially, refrain from giving advice.
‘Hey,’ said Howard. ‘Did you hear that…?’
Jim Gordon – the drummer from Derek and the Dominos (Eric Clapton’s old group) – who’d murdered his mother with a hammer and a butcher’s knife, had died in prison.
‘What?’ said Mark. ‘Hold on, let me Google this.’
‘Did he play with Joe Cocker?’ said James.
‘And Crosby, Stills and Nash, apparently.’
‘And the Incredible Bongo Band.’
I was very close to screaming now.
‘Can we please stop talking about this,’ I said.
Everyone looked up, as if waking from a dream.
‘OK, we’d better stop, Rajeev’s getting annoyed,’ said James.
‘Sorry, Rajeev,’ said Mark.
‘We don’t want to annoy Rajeev,’ said Howard.
I knew they were making fun of me, but I decided to take it on the chin: the fate of the organiser.
In the first session, I offered to go first, knowing that if I was open and vulnerable, the others would find it easier in turn. Luckily, I’d had a terrible week. My agent had responded with scorn to a very honest and revealing draft of a memoir I was working on, and my confidence was in tatters. I told the group this, somewhat awkward and shy myself, and when I’d finished, I suggested we move on to the next person.
‘Too many questions,’ said Howard.
‘I’m so sorry this happened,’ said James. ‘That’s so hard.’
‘What’s really sad is that you’ve lost your confidence,’ said Howard.
After I’d spoken, the others were very open, as I’d hoped they would be
We continued like this for 10 minutes. There was no analysis; I didn’t figure out a way forward in that time. Perhaps the best word for it was connection. I just felt held.
After I’d spoken, the others were very open, as I’d hoped they would be. James told us he’d thought he wouldn’t have much to say, but the reality was he’d been struggling after the death of his parents.
‘I realise now that I’m not as fine as I thought I was,’ he said.
This wasn’t a negative thing. It meant he was feeling more connected to himself.
We continued like this for a year. Howard’s father died, and we devoted the entire session to him. He’d needed this, he said. All he’d been doing was administrative formalities, the dreaded ‘deadmin’, as it’s called. He’d hardly had time to feel, let alone talk about his feelings. James sympathised. He’d been going through this for months, the endless bureaucracy and phone calls.
Another time, Howard admitted he’d been experiencing some pain in his knees. He couldn’t run anymore, was worried about it.
‘Howard,’ said Mark, raising his hand in paternal, dictatorial fashion. ‘No excuses. First, go to the doctor. Second…’
James seconded this, adding further lifestyle injunctions, while Howard nodded, his expression increasingly penitent, if not sheepish, before I intervened.
‘Can we please try not to give each other advice?’ I said. ‘And not to lay down the law. Let’s just listen and ask questions. I mean, if you really want to, it’s OK, but let’s try to be gentle.’
The entire reason for the group was to be ourselves together: messy, frightened and overwhelmed
Everyone looked surprised. This was the way we’d been brought up, the way that we, as men, were used to talking, but they agreed. Sometimes, someone would begin a sentence with: ‘We’re not supposed to give each other advice, so…’ and rethink what they wanted to say. It made me wonder if I was being dictatorial myself with this injunction but decided to do it anyway. We were learning a new way of communicating and, for the most part, it was working.
When I’d had a relatively smooth week, being the organiser was easy. Sometimes, however, I was reluctant to tell them how I was feeling because I didn’t want to take up too much space, or to be a burden to anyone. If they were struggling, I didn’t want to make it even harder for them. Gradually however, I came to realise there was no point in trying to hide or pretend. The entire reason for the group’s inception was that we could be ourselves together: messy, frightened and overwhelmed, which was how we all felt much of the time.
Perhaps this is obvious, but it was through our men’s group that I realised an eternal truth: everyone has problems, and the problems just keep on coming. Anyone who claimed otherwise was probably lying, which I did every day, particularly with people I didn’t know well or didn’t trust.
In fact, I would argue that the most dangerous thing we can do with our problems is to keep them to ourselves, which, unfortunately, is what men tend to do. I lost another friend to suicide recently, one I hadn’t heard from in years, though I’d tried to get in touch. I wonder whether, if he’d had a group like we do, he’d still be with us today. Our group doesn’t fix our problems; all it does is act as a safety net, a way of ensuring that bad experiences don’t become traumas, frustrations don’t become depressions, and legitimate worries don’t end up as despair, or desperation. And this may, in the end, be the difference between living and dying.
