As Smithsonian magazine reports, a new book, Hysterical Men: The Hidden History of Male Nervous Illness, history professor Mark Micale takes on something no one's ever acknowledged: male hysteria.

The term “hysteria” comes from the Greek word for “womb” and refers to a disease that was once diagnosed almost exclusively in women. Women’s asthma, widow’s melancholy, uterine epilepsy — these were all synonyms for a strange complex of symptoms that included unexplained pains, mysterious convulsions, sudden loss of sensation in the limbs and dozens of other complaints without apparent physical cause. Particularly during the Victorian age, doctors thought hysteria demonstrated the general fragility of the fair sex. The best remedy was a good marriage. But all the while untold numbers of men were suffering from the same illness.

Hysteria, of course, was seen as an extension of women's frailty and generally mysterious biological workings. Men — the moral pillars of society — were naturally not prone to the same histronics. Except, of course, that they were. A compliment to their state of mind, perhaps, but also a barrier to receiving what little "treatment" the vague complaints received, and a prejudice which still has echoes in attitudes towards modern men's mental health. What the Victorians called "hysteria" is now thought to be variously identified as “somatization disorder," “psychogenic pain disorder” and a number of other psychological disorders. As Micale explains,

It’s not that the behavior didn’t exist. It did exist. It was rampant. Men were as prone to nervous breakdown as women were...If you were to diagnose honestly, that would have pretty quickly called into the question the difference between the sexes and the idea that men were more self-possessed than their fragile, dependent female counterparts. Ultimately it comes down to patriarchy and power.

The first acknowledgment of "male hysteria" came with the unignorable results of WWI combat: "shell shock." Micale suggests that this was more palatable to people because "these cases almost exclusively involved men, engaged in an honorable male activity." This, he adds, has contributed to increasingly open attitudes towards cases of PTSD — still not easy for many to accept — and explains many men's ingrained disinclination to seek psychiatric help. It's always interesting and dispiriting to be reminded of the extent to which archaic social structures harmed men as well as women: as recently as our grandparents' generation, seeking psychiatric help was regarded as somehow unmanly, as was any lack of control. "Hysteria" may be a thing of the past; the attitudes aren't.

History of the Hysterical Man [Smithsonian]

I can well remember the burning scorn for my next door neighbor and her overnight love for NKOTB, which included a wall of posters and a comforter. I have a clear memory of sitting on my lawn reading a Natalie Babbit book (doubtless in a sunbonnet) while she and a friend did an earnest a cappella rendition of "Step by Step" over the hedge. Around the same time, a hand-clapping game swept my second-grade class. I was, on principle, scornful and refused to play it: I remember arriving at school one day to find my best friend and lone ally clapping and singing along; that day, I sat by myself on the sidelines while the other 19 members of my class played "Em-pom-pi" in a big circle. At least I had my vague principles!

Even at the time, I would have been hard-pressed to define my objection to these seemingly innocuous phenomena. The fact that everyone else liked them — nay, had lost their heads over them — was enough. In later years, sticker books and Koosh balls and 90210 obviously also aroused my superior contempt . There were moments when I yearned for the tactile pleasures of a fuzzy sticker, the clandestine thrill of the Walsh siblings' G-rated antics; but nothing could provide the satisfaction that my principled individuality did — a thrill as compelling and all-encompassing as the trends that swept my classmates along. And obviously as the teen years advanced, my commitment to outsider status only hardened.

Twilight has made people think about the mass hysteria such phenomena can provoke in girls, just as matinee idols, the Beatles, boy bands , High School Musical actors and teen pop stars have done for decades. Hormones, burgeoning sexuality, issues of identity and assimilation are usually invoked. And everyone's aware of the trope of the teen outsider, defining him-or-herself against such conformity. We've all seen The Breakfast Club, after all, and experienced the rigidity of self-imposed youthful roles. But I don't think it's often said that mass hysteria and anti-establishment posing are two sides of the same coin, and to a teen it can sometimes feel like there is not much of an alternative. It can be hard to enjoy something without joining in, hard to reject it without making a self-conscious statement. It can be hard to just kind of like something when you're defining yourself, even though the bulk of a thoughtful adult life is in fact made up of gray areas and shades of opinion.

When I was talking with my young friend, I tried to be sensitive. "Really?" I said casually. "I'm kind of interested to take a look at Twilight, just to see what all the fuss is about." I could see, with that noncommittal response, that I had failed her. I should, I guess, have been railing against conformity, not joining the ranks of apathetic adulthood. After all, she had known me to be an "independent" teenager myself, back in the day. But the truth is, when I was her age, I know I would have secretly been curious to read Twilight — who doesn't like forbidden teen love?! — and even lose myself in pure hysteria for a change. One of the blessed reliefs of being a grown-up is that it's okay to admit that.

The Vampire Of The Mall [New York Times]