It’s three years since I last wrote about depression.

That’s not only because my depression has gone away; there just doesn’t seem to have been anything much worth saying about depression.

The depression hasn’t gone away. If anything it’s got worse. I seem to have descended from “I just don’t want to do anything” … through “I just can’t make myself do anything” … to “why am I even bothering to do anything”.

The rationale (such as it is) for not bothering isn’t just a lack of visible results for my efforts – although that doesn’t help – but has been significantly impacted by the plague of the last 18 months and the ongoing need to stay isolated.

No, it goes deeper. I’ve reached my “three score years and ten” and I’m not going to be around here for very much longer – especially given my medical history etc. Obviously I want to make it to at least 80 in a reasonable state; if I do I shall consider it a result. However I’m not optimistic that I will make 80. Which seems to make anything I do even more pointless.

But then, as Noreen pointed out to me last night, I have loads of longevity genes on both sides of my family. If I look at my parents and their siblings (8 of them) their ages at death were:

Men: 86, 3 (severely handicapped), 93 (and still going)
Women: 90, 99, 99, 78, 89
[I’ve ignored my father’s three half-sisters as they’re only half related to me.]

And if I go back to my grandparents and their siblings (23 of them) their ages were:

Men: 54, 1, 61, 3, 80, <1, 84, 9, 82, 80, 62, 24 (WWI), 78, 73, <1
Women: 26, 84, <1, 72, 83, 40, 88, <1

Stretching a point and going back to my great-grandparents generation (another 60 people) of the 29 I know about we find ages of:

Men: 57, 96, 71, 57, 40, 54, 43, <1, <1, 91, 87, 37, 46, 6, 67, 3
Women: 57, 73, 71, 57, <1, 66, 79, <1, 81, 76, 46, 88, 75

This last isn’t so brilliant, but remember with my great-grandparents we are talking about people born in roughly the middle third of the 19^th century.

In all this we also need to remember:

• We are not talking about wealthy people – even if my parents generation eventually became comfortable with advancing years.
• Until post-WWII medical care was fairly basic, and had to be paid for (no money; no doctor); and it was more basic the further back you go.
• Also pre-WWII child mortality was significant, and perinatal death not uncommon; again worse the further back you go.
• There was relatively little regard to health & safety in the workplace, so industrial accidents were more common.

There are a number of interesting things which pop out at me in this data (though I admit it is incomplete).

• Almost a quarter (14/60) don’t make their 10^th birthday.
• If you make 10 then you have an evens chance (23/45) of making at least 75; a 40% chance of making 80; and a 1 in 8 chance of making 90.
• While I don’t know he cause of death for many of these people, only 3 of the 22 adult women could even plausibly have been perinatal deaths. That seems surprisingly few.
• Only one of the cohort was lost in WWI.

So all other things being equal – which of course they’re not; if it weren’t for modern medicine I’d likely not be here now – I must have a decent chance of having another 10 years.

What would be interesting is to know how much of my depression has a genetic basis, and how much is environmental (in the widest sense). My father had depression (largely unrecognised, except by him, and latterly me) and his father was also depressive (although that was ascribed to trench fever from WWI). How many others of my (recent) forebears suffered from depression we shall never know.

Does that make me feel any better? Well sadly, as a fully paid-up pessimist, it doesn’t. Most people would doubtless say it should; but depression doesn’t work that way. And despite all my efforts I’ve yet to find anything which will kick this “black dog” hard enough in the nuts; although the antidepressants do keep me mostly functioning.

To cap it all, I just can’t get my head round the thought of not being here, doing what I do. How can I not be here, leaving everything in limbo?! It just feels so wrong; so unlikely; so frustrating; and yes, even depressing. Which luckily means I’ve never had any serious thoughts of self-harm or suicide.

Wish me luck!