The Hidden Lives of Men, Part 2

Why Men Fall Out of Love: What Every Woman Needs to Understand
by Michael French

(Page 2 of 5)

Men who are work and responsibility obsessed often feel guilty if they have too much free time or hang out with other men. They think that they are "doing nothing," and that being unproductive is somehow unmasculine. In reality, "doing nothing" can be invaluable therapy. In the Manhasset bar where Moehringer centers his story, doing nothing but drinking means men running from their problems, looking for distractions, fantasizing about women, and being lost boys. Not all men are lost boys, but as Moehringer implies, many feel trapped or taken for granted. It's often assumed by our culture that boys will grow up on their own to become men because, after all, manhood, unlike being a woman, is just not that complicated. As Moehringer finds out, it takes not just a nurturing mother but lots of men - the bar is his metaphor for a much larger and more diverse male universe - to grow a boy into a man. If men are honest, most will admit they need a private world where they are not judged or stereotyped by women, and give themselves permission to explore whatever needs exploring. They need space. They need a place to feel safe.

In most cases, if your relationship is healthy, it's your partner who is your safe harbor, but even the best relationships don't satisfy all needs. Psychologists have written on the necessity for men and women to keep growing emotionally outside of their primary relationships. In the last generation or two, women have learned the value of growth through independence, but men appear to be far less confident and adventurous, as if they don't trust their instincts, have a fear of making a mistake, are afflicted with guilt, or think they will earn the disapproval of their partners if they become too independent. They rationalize that they don't have time for such self-indulgence. Whether men restrict their own growth and freedom or they allow their partners to intimidate them, if opportunities for self-assertion and exploration are cut off, falling out of love may be the result.

Where does this male vulnerability and lack of confidence come from? In the opening scene of Martin Scorsese's film, The Aviator, a preadolescent Howard Hughes is being given a bath by his beautiful Victorian mother. As she caresses his chest and arms with a bar of soap, we sense his vulnerability as well as their mutual adoration. His mother seems in total control of Hughes's emotions, and what she is telling him - to be afraid of people who have typhus and cholera - is reinforced when she asks him to spell the word "quarantine." After making sure he understands the danger of disease and germs, she adds, "you are not safe." This may be a mother who has only the best of intentions - she just wants to keep her son alive - but the unintended consequence of her message is that Hughes develops a lifelong fear of not just germs and disease, but of failure at almost every level.

On the surface, Hughes's adult life is a chronicle of one brazen accomplishment after another, as if to show the world and himself that he is a superhero. Ever the perfectionist, he is as hard on himself as on those around him. He also tries to be perfect in order to push away his fears. At his core, however, the dark message from his mother prevails. He is afraid - of germs, of losing his mind, of rejection by those he loves, of having his weaknesses exposed to the public - but he can't make himself tell anyone. He tries to be confessional with his principal love interest, Kate Hepburn, who reminds us in some ways of his mother. But Hughes is never totally candid with her. He thinks his problems will ultimately go away because, after all, he is the genius and superhero who can conquer anything.

In the end, as in a Greek tragedy, Hughes's fears destroy him. The bar of soap he carries in his pocket is more than evidence of an obsessive-compulsive disorder or germ phobia: it is an ironic message that his problems are internal. Like many men who are boxed in by their fears, Hughes feels alone in the universe. He can't love any of the women he so badly wants to connect with. He is afraid they will abandon him because he thinks he isn't worthy of their love. Overwhelmed by his fears, he retreats emotionally and physically from the world. In his heart he kills almost everything he has loved. Only the beautiful, shiny planes he designs and flies - objects that can never abandon him - seem safe for his affection.

The film's depiction of Hughes is not unlike the lives of many of the men I interviewed. Rather than admit their fears, they preferred to hide behind their relationships, their bravado, their achievements, or other definitions of masculinity. Any display of weakness, any admission of confusion or unworthiness - not just for Hughes, but for a lot of men - are camouflaged by acts of reckless courage, indifference, anger, or denial. Any emotion that reflects vulnerability is the enemy. Anger in particular is used by men as a wall to hide their vulnerability.

Hughes's life was not unlike the movies he made, which were essentially dramatizations of male fantasies. For a lot of men, day-to-day reality is an oppressive world - a place of stress, tedium, ambiguity, endless responsibility and accountability - a world of shadows more than light, and from which they long to escape, if only they knew how. Male fantasies, running the gamut from sexual to the urge to be a superhero, are fundamentally about needing to retreat from a male world that is tightly and unforgivingly restrictive - to a male world that is unfettered, without responsibility, and judgment-free.

Copyright © 2007 by Michael French