If my Dad had broke his leg he'd be sent home in a cast, and we'd have instructions on how he'd get better. We'd be told to help him rest for a few weeks, he'd be told when he could get back to walking, back to running and back to full recovery. We'd be told what medication he was on and when he should take it...
When I was 17 years old a man pulled over an articulated lorry on a busy road to hit on me. I can't be sure, but I think that's when a lifetime of being hit on constantly began. Now wait - before you think "ugh, what is this woman complaining about now?" I'm here to explain why women need to stop thinking other women are bragging when they tell these stories.
It is well-known amongst healthcare professionals that women are more likely to visit their GP and be more involved with their health. Some men can feel that by going to their doctor they'll be seen as someone who is making a fuss. Their default option may be simply to do nothing and carry on.
While I feel that it is positive progress to acknowledge that men too can be victims of unwanted sexual experiences, it concerns me that this inclusivity may not be seen as something that should consistently and continuously run through our language when discussing sexual abuse.
Most men simply don't have the tools or sensitivity to respond when one of their mates talks about his fears or inner feelings. They'll typically crack a joke to keep things safe, brush it off with a "don't worry mate, have another drink...", or change the subject to sex or sport.
We just mucked about all day with no rules to rein us in. We had no clock to worry about, or no structure to adhere to. We just simply went with the flow. An easy-going day full of fun, bonding and an astronomical amount of laughter.
Men, in hunter-gather times, used to leave their women and children behind in order to head out together on extended hunting trips, driven by the need to survive. During these journeys, men would find themselves in pristine, perilous wilderness where they would depend on one another and their own sharpened senses, to outwit potential predators.
Nine down, one to go - the end really is in sight. We've been over hills, down dales, along canals, over fields and stiles. Truly a walk on the wild side for this gentleman of the road and my trusty wingman Russ Green, who has walked every step with me. And we're getting cracking support as we inch closer to the finish.
I am ill. I am mentally ill. I am always walking the tightrope of depression where a misstep could lead to self harm or, worse, suicide. That tightrope though has been made much wider because of the NHS. With the wonder of the NHS I do not walk a path where I cry out in hate but smile in gratitude.
For the last couple of years, I've collaborated on a number of photography projects with artists, barbers, men's clothing brands etc, so my main focus has been capturing men on camera. As a lover of history, my inspiration for the majority of the shoots I've done comes from the great men of art and early colour photography.
Sometimes coming from a working class background can making opening up quite tough. My mother and father are excellent, but I do feel like in a household that has a focus on the basic amenities in life, mental health may, unfortunately, get swept under the carpet.
With the decline of the 'dad bod' and a recent increase in male grooming - more guys than ever are taking care of their appearance and trying to achieve the 'perfect' body. "Manscaping" is becoming a part of the daily routine; men are turning to waxing studios, threading their eyebrows, slapping on the fake tan and hitting the gym hard.
Men down talk about their emotions, and we certainly don't ask for help. I've fallen out with several friends and partners because one or both of us felt we couldn't ask for what we needed. This inability to talk is linked to higher suicide rates, poor mental health and use of substances as a coping mechanism.
A couple of weeks ago, I listened to some guy on Radio 2 expressing his point of view on masculinity and the topic of men crying. Real men don't cry, he said. "There are plenty of things that bring a lump to my throat, but that doesn't mean I'm going to start blubbing like a little girl." Wow.
There was strong consensus that challenging everyday sexism, even if it seems small compared to the immense injustices that exist elsewhere in the world was key. Language matters and it was heartening that the boys were prepared to intervene with each other on how they spoke and joked.
10,900 men die of prostate cancer every year. That's one every hour. 44,000 are diagnosed every 12 months, and one in every three diagnosed will die of the disease. I could go on, but I won't. Enough to say that these stats, which are bad anyway, are heading in the wrong direction.