Adventures at Midlife

A troubling story from a recent NYTimes: “A new five-year analysis of the nation’s death rates recently released by the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention found that the suicide rate among 45-to-54-year-olds increased nearly 20 percent from 1999 to 2004, the latest year studied, far outpacing changes in nearly every other age group…For women 45 to 54, the rate leapt 31 percent.” Research apparently indicates that “the prime suspect is the skyrocketing use — and abuse — of prescription drugs,” according to the Times story.

As interesting as the story itself was, with some really poignant stories, the readers’ responses were, well, amazing. Their top culprits? The economy, George Bush, Iraq, ageism, lookism, 9/11, a general loss of hope.

Deep in the dark recesses of my heart, I have my own theory: Read the rest of this entry »

Meghan Daum is tired of hearing from the Department of Depression.

Working with data from 2 million people in 80 countries, American and British researchers found that feelings of psychological well-being follow a U-shaped pattern, meaning that most people feel happy when they’re young and get progressively less so as they head into their fifth decade. The average age for hitting bottom emotionally was 44, with women reaching their low point around 40 and men around 50. Interestingly, the researchers found, those who remain healthy after 70 are likely to see their happiness levels return to the levels of most 20-year-olds…

Am I crazy (or, more likely, experiencing the edges of middle-age grouchiness) or is this sciencey-speak for what we can figure out on our own? Doesn’t [it] mean that part of getting older is recognizing that you’re never going to be a rock star/compete in the Olympics/marry a supermodel, and that this knowledge becomes less of a bummer as the years go by and you’re just glad not to be dead?

…[W]hat if we were to enter a therapist’s office and be told that feeling depressed is just a natural part of the aging process, the psychological equivalent of extra waistline fat or arthritic knees? Moreover, what if your typical 44-year-old American was told that his depression, while probably not wholly unrelated to some trauma dating back to toddlerhood, is ultimately not all that different from that of 44-year-olds in most of the world?

I have a series of overwrought journals from my twenties, and I think if I scanned them (which I don’t, for fear of catastrophic, terminal embarrassment), I would find that I’ve actually achieved a lot of the wishes I had back then. Was it Samuel Johnson who said that there is “nothing more useless than a middle-aged woman?” That sounds like a 17th-century sensibility, but the thought of it dogs me sometimes. As the clock ticks merrily away, I think what I want most is to feel like I’m not irrelevant.