The ‘Man Up’ Trap: My Fight Against a System Failing UK Men's Mental Health By Dusty Wentworth

The First Contact – Silence in Uniform

May 1994. I'd just returned from Bosnia, and something had followed me home. Not a tangible enemy, but a creeping unease, a hollowness that grew with each passing day. Soon after, while still in uniform, I was first diagnosed with PTSD.

At first, it was small things—trouble sleeping, a sense of unease I couldn’t quite name. But it got worse. Not in a dramatic or obvious way, just steadily, quietly. A slow, insidious decline. Something wasn't right. I knew that. But I didn't want to admit it. Not to the medical officer. Not to my mates. Not even to myself.

Because in the infantry, you're not supposed to crack.

I told myself I had to hold the line. I couldn’t be the weak link in the platoon's chain. So I didn't ask for help. Instead, I drank. Alcohol became my armour. It dulled the edge enough to function. In my head, that seemed like the only viable option. Because if I came clean—if I said I was struggling—I believed the battalion would laugh me out of camp. I’d lose the respect of the lads. Worse, I’d lose the job I loved.

So I stayed quiet.

And I suffered in silence.

That was my first encounter with mental health. It wouldn’t be my last.

Still Carrying the Silence – Misdiagnosis and the Modern Man

You’d hope that things had changed since 1994. That men’s mental health would now be treated seriously—openly, professionally, without judgement. You’d hope that progress had been made.

Apparently not.

In October 2023, I collapsed at home. At hospital, doctors discovered a brain aneurysm. There was concern it might be leaking—what they called a slow bleed—and I was kept in while they tried to determine the cause of my worsening symptoms.

It was a difficult, distressing time. And, like anyone with trauma will understand, it triggered a resurgence in my PTSD symptoms. I thought it best to tell the staff. I was vulnerable, and I needed them to understand why.

That honesty cost me.

The moment I mentioned PTSD, the tone changed. My mental health wasn't just a factor—it became the cause. Brain investigations were quietly dropped. I was told my symptoms were likely due to Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), attributed to my trauma history.

Yes—trauma can influence neurological function. I wasn’t denying that. But I'd lived with PTSD for years. I’d done the work, educated myself, built a recovery plan. I managed my trauma—it didn’t manage me.

I asked for second opinions. Challenged the diagnosis. Eventually, Addenbrooke’s Hospital deemed the aneurysm “stable” and said it only needed monitoring.

It ruptured three months later. Nearly killed me.

The damage was extensive. The subarachnoid haemorrhage caused memory loss, physical disability, and triggered fresh waves of anxiety and depression. I wasn't just battling my past anymore—I was mourning the person I used to be.

And the mental health support? Virtually non-existent.

In hospital, it was lip service. A box to tick before discharge. The hope, it seemed, was that I’d quietly become someone else’s problem. At the outpatient “specialist” neurological service, the neuropsychologist dismissed me out of hand. She told me there was nothing she could offer that would help.

So much for progress.

In 1994, I stayed silent out of fear. In 2024, I spoke up—and was sidelined anyway. The outcome was the same: my mental health made me disposable.

Beyond Talk – What Men Actually Need

One of the biggest problems in mental health today is this: we’re still talking about men, not talking to them. And we’re certainly not building services for them.

The Hard Numbers

In 2024, 6,069 suicides were registered in England and Wales—76% were men.

Suicide is the leading cause of death for men under 50 in the UK.

Fewer than 20% of men who died by suicide had contact with mental health professionals in the year before their death.

Just 30% of mental health service users are men, despite men accounting for three quarters of all suicides.

Mental Health and the Criminal Justice System

Over 90% of male prisoners have at least one diagnosable mental health condition.

Almost 50% of prisoners meet clinical thresholds for anxiety and depression.

Self-inflicted deaths in prison are five to six times higher than in the general population.

Suicide risk in male offenders is approximately four times higher than the national average—even outside prison walls.

And yet—services remain unchanged. Support is still built around a model that doesn’t fit the way many men process pain.

We still treat men’s emotional health like it’s a public awareness campaign. “Let’s talk about mental health.” As if talking, alone, saves lives. But men don’t just need to talk. They need purpose. Direction. Brotherhood. Respect. They need services built around action, not abstraction.

They need professionals who understand male trauma and won’t dismiss it.

They need to see themselves reflected in the system—not pathologised by it.

The Future Depends on What We Build

We already know what works. Research shows that when services are structured with men in mind—goal-driven, trauma-informed, culturally competent—men do engage. But these services are rare. Underfunded. Marginalised.

Mental health care remains overwhelmingly shaped by models that work better for women. Services often lack male staff, and many female clinicians openly express discomfort treating men. If the roles were reversed, it would be a national scandal.

Instead, it’s just policy as usual.

If this continues—if the ideological attack on masculinity persists while male-centred services remain overlooked—the pressure on men and boys will reach breaking point.

Some would argue it already has.

We need a different model.

One that meets men where they are—not where the system expects them to be. One that values action, not just introspection. One that’s grounded in evidence, not ideology.

What Needs to Change:

Measure outcomes by gender, not just service access.

Fund male-centred programmes across mental health, justice, and rehabilitation.

Actively recruit and train male clinicians, and train all staff in male engagement strategies.

Normalise male-only spaces where vulnerability is not weakness—but preparation for healing.

Stop punishing male trauma with labels, neglect, or silence.

We need more than awareness. We need systems that respect men enough to serve them properly.

What would a male-centred mental health service—built by men, for men—actually look like? And why aren’t we building it?