By Guest Writer Manchester based award winning artist and my friend  Loveartpix.

November is Men’s Mental Health Month, and as usual, I want to move beyond the usual catchphrases like ‘Talking Helps‘ as it’s far more complex than that. The question I keep returning to (because it’s personal) is this: does our generic, neurotypical framing of “men’s mental health “leave too many men like me behind?

Campaigns, days, and months do matter – they reduce stigma by getting the much needed conversations going and remind us to check in on friends. But what is their impact if suicide rates are still just as high, and some of the men at greatest risk (neurodivergent men) are largely left out of the conversation?

We rarely say this plainly: autistic people face a much higher risk of suicide than non‑autistic people. A large Swedish population study found that autistic adults, especially those without intellectual disability, were around nine times more likely to die by suicide than their non‑autistic peers (Hirvikoski et al., 2016). 

Autistic adults without intellectual disabilities are, on average, more likely than non‑autistic peers to experience mental health conditions such as anxiety and depression. Factors that contribute include chronic camouflaging/masking, sensory overload, social mismatch and stigma, late or missed diagnosis, and barriers to tailored support.

In clinical samples, the picture is even starker: two‑thirds of autistic adults report lifetime suicidal ideation, and about one‑third report suicide plans or attempts (Cassidy et al., 2014). If the risk is this high, why isn’t this part of the headline of our November conversations?

And what about the many who are undiagnosed – men whose autistic traits are missed or misread due to lack of awareness? How many die by suicide after years of the wrong treatment, the wrong framework, or a string of mental‑health labels that never addressed neurodivergent needs in the first place? We don’t track this well enough to know – this, for me, is very worrying.

I’m not speaking in theory. For more than two decades, I repeated the same words over and over, and the responses I received didn’t fit their box – so it was a continuous battle creating more mental health issues.

“Look Dez, you’ve taken every combination of medication we can offer you. What else do you want us to do?” – words you don’t want to hear from the psychiatrist in charge of your mental health and well being!

Even after my diagnosis, I’m basically begging for support in any way possible, but they still don’t have an answer. Right now, no services are willing to accept my case. That isn’t a lack of “talking.”It’s a system that doesn’t understand or accommodate neurodivergent needs.

“Talk to someone.” “Pick up the phone.” “Open up.” These messages are well‑meant—and sometimes they help. But they assume a neurotypical nervous system. When distress is driven by sensory overload, alexithymia (difficulty identifying and describing feelings), shutdown, or the aftermath of masking, being asked to “speak up” on a phone call, or in fluorescent‑lit rooms, with vague questions, can be not only ineffective but also actively dysregulating and even traumatic.

Personally, I often communicate better in text when I go into meltdown (and after), I need time to process, and rely on concrete, direct language and clear communication. Standard CBT delivered at a pace, full of metaphors and homework that assumes neurotypical cognition, doesn’t work unless it’s really adapted. Yet adapted therapy is patchy across the UK, and post‑diagnostic support for adults remains weak at best – if it exists at all! I’ve learned this the hard way: I’ve been “talking” for years. What’s missing isn’t the willingness to speak – it’s services that listen but don’t know how to respond to neurodivergent communication without pathologising it.

Diagnostic waiting lists have exploded. There are now well over one hundred thousand people in England awaiting autism assessments, with many waiting far longer than the 13‑week standard – often 12–24 months or more. Adult ADHD pathways are similarly overloaded. Late diagnosis isn’t just an administrative delay; it can mean decades of inappropriate treatment plans, missed adjustments at school and work, and a build‑up of trauma from being told to “try harder” in systems not built for your brain. Each missed or delayed diagnosis is a missed opportunity for prevention – especially when we know suicidality is elevated in autistic populations.

89% of autistic adults in the UK aged 40-59 are undiagnosed – Kings College London (2025)

This is why the generic approach to “men’s mental health” feels inadequate to me. Awareness months aren’t wrong – they are just incomplete. We can’t keep telling men to “open up” while offering only neurotypical doorways.

Here’s a truth I wish we’d say out loud: it’s a huge barrier when men are already “talking,” but the system still can’t understand what they’re saying. I’ve used the same words for more than twenty years. The approaches offered back haven’t matched my needs – and I am not a unique case! Even after my diagnosis, when I articulate my needs clearly, services have no adapted pathway, no training, or no remit that fits. At this moment, I’m not being accepted by any service. That isn’t impartial; it’s exclusion by design.

Neurodiversity, complex trauma, and racialised stress each demand deep, specific knowledge. Very few clinicians are experts across all three. That’s not a criticism of individuals; it’s a system‑design problem. Our pathways remain separated: autism/adhd/dyslexia over here, trauma/cptsd over there, “men’s mental health” somewhere in a campaign toolkit. Meanwhile, men sit on waiting lists, collecting labels, and learn to mask harder. Many still struggle to speak openly – especially when their experiences don’t match neat, neurotypical scripts of sadness, worry, and recovery.

Campaigns must reflect the facts: men are not all the same, and neither are their minds – neurotypical and neurodivergent. Put neurodivergent men on the list and on the panels. Highlight that autistic burnout is not laziness; that ADHD‑related rejection sensitivity can look like despair; that shutdowns and meltdowns are not misbehaviour. And tell men this clearly: if standard tools haven’t worked, maybe it’s the tool and not you! 

And let’s make the suicide data visible, not buried in academic journals. If autistic men face a dramatically higher risk, surely that belongs on the first slide, the first poster, and the first funding line?

We should admit where the evidence base is thin and choose humility. Research is (hopefully) accelerating, but we’re years from fully understanding these intersections. Until then, ‘specialists’ need to listen more to lived experience – with an open mind, and not through the generalised, stereotypical lens that turns nuance into “non‑compliance.” Ask what helps. Believe the answers. Adapt!

None of this diminishes the value of awareness months; it actually refocuses them. If we want November’s messages to be more than posters and hashtags, we have to build services that fit all men, not the imaginary neurotypical everyman. The stakes are life and death. A system designed around the most complex needs will serve everyone better.

‘I have personally reached out to some well-known men’s mental health services and asked how they handle neurodivergent individuals, and I have been met with half-hearted replies and almost snubbed to my face’ – an all too common response in my experience. 

Acceptance has been central to how I navigate life now – there isn’t any help out there at the moment, as the research simply isn’t there. Acceptance hasn’t removed the struggle, but it has reframed it for me. I have been ‘speaking up’ for years. I don’t need another generic neurotypical catchphrase. I need services that recognise what I’m saying – and are ready and able to respond with understanding, compassion and a willingness to make reasonable adjustments. 

Sources for the statistics mentioned:

– Hirvikoski, T. et al. (2016). Premature mortality in autism spectrum disorder. A population‑based study in Sweden. Findings include markedly elevated suicide mortality, especially among autistic adults without intellectual disability.

– Cassidy, S. et al. (2014). Suicidal ideation and suicide plans or attempts in adults with Asperger’s syndrome attending a specialist clinic. Reports 66% lifetime suicidal ideation and 35% plans/attempts.