“What a drag it is getting old.”
When Mick Jagger and Keith Richards penned the opening line to “Mother’s Little Helper” in 1966, they were brash 22-year-olds still not at the top of their game. My father, a Rolling Stones fan from the other side of the generation gap, predicted that turning 30 would be the worst thing to ever happen to them.
I was nine and had no idea what he was talking about. Now that I am 60 and Mick and Keith are pushing 75, I have a better understanding of what he meant.
Milestone birthdays carry a special significance. Thirty is supposed to be the dividing line between one’s youth and adulthood. If you are still clinging to the attitudes and habits of adolescence at 30 and beyond, you are in for a rude awakening.
I was lucky to get most of my ya-ya’s out by the time I reached 18 (Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out!, 1970). A year and a half in rehab turned my life around. By the time I hit 30, I was among the most responsible young adults you would ever meet, having just spent the last five years running homes for abandoned, abused, and exploited children in conflict-ridden Honduras of the 80s.
No one was more surprised than I at how I turned out at 30. But in getting off drugs and reinventing myself as a contributing member of society, I never dealt with my underlying mental health issues. I scarcely even recognized them. Even as I lived through periods of depression (one which nearly ended me), I dared not call it by that name.
Instead, I pushed through until things got better. I still drank a bit, but for the most part, I coped by working harder, losing myself in the demands of an exhausting job in the harshest of conditions: living and working in a poor country with its most mistreated youth. Although the circumstances of my life were often depressing, I no longer felt the actual depression.
I had discovered the secret to great mental health: stay constantly busy and make sure I was always taking care of someone else.
At 35, I got married. Back in the US, I now had a family to support. I was so sure I had mastered the fundamentals of positive mental health that I decided to make it my profession. Life was good, if strenuous.
Of course, there were sacrifices to be made. Twelve months after the birth of my son, I gave up my membership at the gym. After my second child was born, I did my best to give up sleep. But I was young and could handle the stress if only I worked a little harder and focused on other people’s needs instead of my own.
I watched my father go through similar stages in his life before he passed away. He had always been my most important role model. Hospitalized for bipolar disorder in his mid-30s, he bounced back to launch a successful career in business. He retired comfortably in his 50s, and for years after that, I watched him move between phases of depression and agoraphobia and surprising creativity and engagement with others.
By the time he left this world months shy of his 80th birthday, he seemed to have mastered the art of growing old. He still took medication for depression, but he balanced his life with yoga and meditation practices, daily walks with his dogs, gardening and painting, religion classes at the local college, and an active social life.
I admire how my father lived his later years. When I was 50, I felt at the top of my game and nowhere near ready to retire. But at some point in the last ten years, my stoic attitude and neglect of self-care began to catch up with me.
The lost sleep, drinks consumed to steady nerves, stifled emotions, and exhausting schedule have taken their toll. At age 60, I can feel it in my aging body.
When I ended up at the cardiologist’s with heart-pounding palpitations, I realized that anxiety had become the driving emotion in my life. I took a break from alcohol, allowed myself an extra hour of sleep at night, and began to practice Tai Chi and mindfulness.
The parallels with my father are uncanny. It just took me a few extra years to catch on that getting old is only as much of a drag as I make it.
Somewhere along the way, the lead members of the Rolling Stones must have figured out the same. If Keith Richards and Mick Jagger can still rock and roll at 75 in relatively good health and happiness, I can handle whatever the next 15 years have in store for me.
About the Author: Jay Boll, LMSW, writes about mental health from dual perspectives: as a professional with more than forty years of experience working with homeless youth and adults with mental health conditions and as a family member with lived experience.
Custom Image Created with files from Public Domain/Wikimedia Commons
- London Records, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
- Raph_PH, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
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good one keep it up