In a new series, Comment is free writers and editors want to highlight some of the best comments on the site. Each week, either an editor or the author of a recent piece will pick a comment that they think contributes to the debate. We'll get in touch with the commenter and ask them to expand a little on their post, as well as tell us some more about themselves. Hopefully, it will give staff and readers an opportunity to see how thought-provoking such contributions can be and allow great posts the chance to be seen by a wider audience.

In our fourth instalment, Ally Fogg has picked a comment found below his piece on men and depression. The comment is by DorianHawksmoon:

I have a very clear memory of being a toddler and my father shouting at me "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about!" And my mother responding with "He's only a child, what's the matter with you?". And, of course, my responding with yet more intense tears, based on the fact that I knew, even at that age, that: a) My father couldn't release his own emotions, and was deeply wounded; b) I was driving a rift between my parents; c) I was angry with my father but felt helpless to express myself at so powerful a figure; and d) I felt foolish for being so "weak".

I've struggled my entire life with tears. The issue my father raised at that very young age has never left me, and I'm now in my mid-50s. I cry a lot "for a man" and, to be honest, I think I cry "too much" for a human being.
I decided long ago to reject my father's approach to emotion. I knew early on that he was a victim of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), having gone through WW2 and the death of his brother in 1942. He never properly grieved his brother's death at all, because people never really had the time to indulge themselves in doing so. After all, you knew that your own brother's death was eclipsed by the deaths of countless others on the battlefield or at home in bombed-out homes. The deepest, core feelings of grief could never be expressed. So I think my tendency to tears came from a very early decision: I couldn't be "that" kind of person – one who couldn't grieve.

But the problem is that once you give yourself permission, there really is no holding back, And this is where things get interesting. I'm almost of the suspicion that men, given the opportunity, would cry much more than women. And you only need to scratch below the surface of the "I need a sensitive man" kind of woman to discover that, whilst she likes a man who can express his emotions, she certainly doesn't want him to express them more than she does.
So this in itself raises some interesting questions. Are men duty-bound to hold their feelings in? Is it part of a man's role to not express grief? One could certainly think so, when you consider some of the unspoken "duties" expected of men in society.

We are, of course, expected to not just carry the heavy loads, but we're expected to be the last off the sinking ship. We're expected to go to war purely because we have a penis. Someone invades your home? The man is the one who's expected to fight any attackers. The man is always expected to be the first line of defence.
So let's just take a look at this alone: men are expected to be on constant, 24/7 standby fight status. We might be the most sensitive beings in existence, but when the chips are down, we're still expected to "man up".
Knowing all this, what do you expect us to do? One option is to be raging lunatics. The safer, more socially accepted option … is to cry.

Ally Fogg explains why he chose this comment:

An amazing clip has been doing the rounds lately, of Sir Patrick Stewart meeting fans and answering questions. He spoke beautifully about both the abuse his mother suffered at his father's hands, and his father's suffering from "shell-shock" or PTSD, which may well have been at least one cause of the abuse. If anyone hasn't seen it, please watch, it is the most moving few minutes you'll ever see, and I've been feeling firmly hugged in the afterglow for the past couple of weeks.
This comment from DorianHawksmoon touched on similar themes, and moved me in a similar way. The personal anecdote which begins the post is as good an illustration of the article's main message as I could have dreamed of. Then his comment slipped into a series of related points and open questions which are, to a very large extent, the same kinds of questions I wrangle with constantly in my own writing and my thoughts. I don't know the answers to his questions any more than he does, but if we ever get the opportunity I'd like to buy him a pint and I'm sure by the evening's end we'll have put it all to rights.

DorianHawksmoon explains his reasons for commenting on Ally's piece, and tells us a bit about himself:

Have you commented on Cif before?

Yes, I comment on Cif often, on a range of subjects, and have been doing so pretty much since its inception.

How would you describe the community of commenters you find here?

I think that on the whole it's a pretty good community, and most people have something worthwhile to say. I get a little frustrated at times because I think the moderation can get a little heavy-handed - I wonder, sometimes, what's said that gets a comment deleted that has already gained several "likes" – but of all the online comment/discussion boards (I read and comment on the Telegraph, New York Times, Los Angeles Times and others) it's perhaps the most comprehensive, and has the most-informed commenters, I think. The fact that people comment from all over the world says a lot.

Why did you feel motivated to comment on this piece?

I commented on this particular piece for several reasons. One, in that I do cry a lot, and it's been an issue for me. Masculinity and gender, roles and so on, have been in my face since I was a kid. I rejected what was expected of me perhaps because I lost respect for my father early on. I didn't, as it were, have a strong masculine role model, and I think it led to me to become something of a feminist. I was also in a relationship with a girlfriend who was raped while we were dating. That event alone threw my life into turmoil as I tried to deal with my feelings of rage (the extreme desire to kill the rapist, my rage at "the system" (courts, judiciary, prison system) and mental healthcare in the UK). It caused me to look at who I am, and what's expected of me in society. And, to be frank, I still haven't reached firm conclusions – and so I find myself drawn to the subject, perhaps more than most. I'm also an actor and, like Stephen Fry, suffered from bipolar disorder. Like him, I also walked out of my life rather than commit suicide, left the UK with just a single suitcase, abandoning all my possessions. But unlike Stephen, I never came back! I admire his take on many things, too. So I was drawn to the piece because it was about him. Finally, I'm making a documentary about masculinity. So far I've only interviewed a couple of people (a cowboy, a gun-toting dude), but I'm working on some interesting characters in Texas, some transvestites, a man who knits, and others. So this subject is of real interest for me.

In regards to your comment highlighted here, do you feel you changed the conversation or moved the debate on?

As far as changing the conversation, I don't know. I tend to make comments and move on. I will go back and re-read what I said and take a look at how the conversation has progressed.

Where are you in the world?

Currently, I'm living in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

• Let us know your thoughts on this exchange in the comments below, and tell us whether it has given you a new insight into the issue.