Michel Rodrigue: My message to other men this Movember

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Some of my best memories are fishing with my dad. Side by side in our little boat on Lake Threecorner in Northern Ontario, we often sat in quiet contemplation for hours, exchanging only a few words from time to time. But occasionally, those fishing trips would turn into more than just catching the catch of the day.

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My most important conversations with my father, the ones that focused on big questions and big life decisions, were side by side on that boat, the waves rocking, our hands busy, my worries and hopes floating to the surface like a floating lure.

I lost my dad five years ago. I tried to put the pain behind me. But it always reaches you in the end. And that’s my message on this Movember: don’t try to escape difficult feelings, a very real temptation for many of the men I know.

This is confirmed in a recent survey we conducted, which revealed that men are more likely to report problematic substance use than women. This is especially true for men who live alone.

It is much easier to sink into unhealthy distractions than to sit in discomfort.

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But all those afternoons on the water with my dad reinforced the obviousness that sharing your load often cuts it in half. My father was not here to offer his open-minded listening ear when my mother fell ill with Alzheimer’s. I lost a close cousin, an uncle, and an aunt during the COVID-19 lockdown, and again, the pain came, magnified by the lack of ceremony. Still, I continued, bearing the weight of these struggles, trying to savor little moments of joy and connection, despite constant sadness.

But several months ago, when my dearest friend in my life suffered a pulmonary embolism and I thought I was going to lose him, I wondered how much damage a person could take. I did the only thing I know how to do when a tragedy strikes.

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I went out into nature.

Long walks were my salvation this summer and into the fall. The walks gave me a peace that I couldn’t find anywhere else, the sounds of a living forest a reminder that we are all part of something bigger. Slowly, with each walk, I let the accumulated pain sink into a closed step. There is a calm that comes with acceptance, and it was in those lonely stays that I allowed the sadness of the past years to fade.

Instead of denying the pain, I let it in.

I could feel my stress starting to drop and my blood pressure starting to drop. I began to remember those fishing trips with my dad with moving clarity; the veil of sadness is slowly lifted, replaced by nostalgic affection. I kept walking even when I received the news that my best friend was coming off the worst of his illness.

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When I could see it, I quickly realized that things were different. It would have a long and uncertain road. But she was able to grab my phone and ask for the music from our shared past, and as we sat together, each of us being carried away by our own memories, I had the hard-won perspective of being grateful in any way that I could. take this new friendship. .

Men are no less susceptible to the vagaries of sadness and pain than the women in our lives. Some of us just don’t always know how to put those feelings into words that can bridge the gap.

These last few years have given me pause to consider what my father was trying to teach me many moons ago on the fishing boat.

With his hands full, he was telling me that nothing I could trust him would interrupt the flow. With her quiet assurance, she gave me the confidence to make my own decisions. Most importantly, with the long silences, he was giving me the space to find the words.

I think, after all these years, I have.

Michel Rodrigue is President and CEO of the Mental Health Commission of Canada.