February 17, 2008~~8:58 p.m.
Tacos, turning 40, & that time of year

First of all, Taco Boy, I was *not* looking at your journal like *that*. I did, however, find it interesting that you chose to write about half of what brought me here to post an entry myself.

So, yea... I'll be 40 in just over a month and it's freaking me out just a little. It's not that I'm not happy with where these first four decades have brought me. I've made good choices. I've worked hard. I've learned from my mistakes and followed my heart. If you look at it from the outside, my life is exactly where I would have hoped for it to be.

So why is it that it somehow doesn't feel like enough? Why do I wonder what else I might be missing out on everyday that I continue down the path I'm already on?

The husband enjoys thoughts of retirement, planning all of the carefree fun the still-somewhat-distant future holds for us. I, instead, worry about living life *now*. I hate working and saving... all for a tomorrow that isn't guaranteed.

This time of year is hard. I've written that entry here or in my paper journal every mid-February for the last nine years. I don't really have anything new to say about my mom's death. Again, like clockwork, the air feels thick as I struggle to muddle through. The husband, as usual, needed to be told, explicitly, what is up with me.

And, I get that he's never going to understand what it feels like for me, but couldn't he write it down or something? It's bad enough to feel like the world is caving in, but it really adds insult to injury to have to explain not only that the depression is creeping in, but also account for *why*.

I know it seems unreasonable to other people that it would still feel do raw after all these years and if that was his reaction, it would hurt, but it would feel more thoughtful than not even remembering why this time of year gets to me.

I remember when my mom turned 40; I was in college, already together with the guy I'd eventually marry. She only had eleven years left to live after that. How might she have lived that time differently if she'd known? How might I have? And given that no one ever figured out what caused the condition that led to her death, how do I know it won't happen to me too?

~Alice