Thank you all for your kind responses. Most of the suggested options and therapies are not familiar to me, however my memory is not very reliable, especially in the short term. If anyone would be so kind as to provide links for me directly I will attempt to save them for time when I have sufficient physical & emotional energies to delve into them. I am hindered by cataracts so I no longer drive confidently, spend much time on my computer, or do much of my beloved reading as all becomes blurry and headaches ensue if I push it.
I took meditation in the 80's and some sort of ‘stress/heart rate reduction mind control’ therapy thing, but couldn't continue as my neurons were firing so often I couldn't hear myself think when I tried. I do recall I wore a headpiece and they were quite impressed I could raise & lower the sound tones and the light flashing speeds. I never understood what the benefit was and blood pressure didn't become such a concern for me until about 2000.
My high school and college writing teachers did give favorable marks for my writing. One remarked on a submission that I had the ‘Great American Novel’ inside me. I have no training per se. I had little to no friends until becoming a hippie, so I had a book in my hand constantly reading everything I could find of interest to me. I considered it my 'escapism' from reality to fall into 'Middle Earth, Deep Space, Science and History.' I have more trivia knowledge than common sense, can’t find where I parked my car or if I took the bus.
The major life experiences I've described are ingrained because I have told & re-told them to professionals so many times – to little avail.
More's the pity because last fall when faced with a health crisis, in a moment of rare clarity, I vowed to write my life story for several reasons:
One being that my wife, as a past Historical Cemetery Board Member and as her family were city fathers of Kansas City, we are honored to have allotted space at historical Union Cemetery. Because of their family plot, they ask when interned, we provide our life's story to their members of the Historical Society – for Posterity.
There are several historical figures buried there including a Revolutionary Soldier, many Union & Confederate Soldiers, Chinese Railway Laborers and just about everyone who has Kansas, Kansas City, Missouri notoriety, a neighborhood, boulevard or park named after them.
Her family once owned the land that became Westport, where the Oregon, Sante Fe, and California trails were outfitted, contracted guides and provisioned by her industrious ancestors. Years back it was discovered they provisioned the infamous 'Donner Party', were the first to attempt salvage of the sunken Steamboat Arabia, and owned the popular landmark, the Westport Inn after the Boone family, but before Irishman Randal Kelly made it famous. But I digress.
The second reason I want my life recorded is so my descendants will know me and how much I cared for their world which they would inherit. I know my lineage back to an Andrew Reed of 1792 Kentucky and would give anything to know of his life and whether he immigrated from Scotland, Ireland or England. My own children do not seem interested in history much like my prior generation, much to my distress. I feel I failed them all in many ways. What amends can I make?
I was born before any satellites entered orbit. I saw the Beatles. I protested the Vietnam war tearing up and returning my draft card with declaration as a conscientious objector who would not report when ordered. I donated my time in lieu of money to innumerable causes, xmas for the poor charities, for disease cures, children’s charities, etc. I witnessed the post MLK assassination riots. I tried to educate my kids to be ecologically and socially responsible for their planet and fellow man lest their grandchildren be faced with strife, if not extinction from famine, political upheaval, or unpreparedness for natural disasters, etc. I witnessed so much of history.
Like Philip K. Dick’s replicant, I mourn; All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.’