Friday, June 5, 2009

Googling My Story

I’m 62, so, if I’m ever going to write this thing, I’d better get started. That makes sense, doesn’t it? After all…

I’m googling “mental acuity at age 62.” The top result is for an ultra intelligence program guaranteed to boost your mind power “like nothing else.” The second refers me to a patent for an energy-enhancing supplement. The third hawks Ginkgosense, claiming it should be taken by anyone “concerned with mental acuity and vision as they age.” That’s definitely me, but no thanks. The fourth yielded research funded by The Himalaya Drug Co on their product Geriforte which is touted as a comprehensive compound of Rasayana drugs, the major component of which is Chyavanprash. Nothing like a couple hits of that to put your mind back in gear.

Obviously, this search is getting me nowhere. I refined the parameters to “research on mental acuity and aging.” Results: More crap. Is this what Al Gore had in mind when he invented the internet? Result number 4 links to an article about computer games that bring brain fitness to the aging. Well, I already spend too much time on computer games – my current game of choice is Pathwords which I access through facebook – and that habit is one of the many things working against me as I try to complete this. Oh, screw it!

My cat died, recently…

Back to google… anxiety disorders, chronic pains, eating disorders, depression, gastrointestinal distress, asthma, obesity, insomnia, panic attacks, sexual dysfunction, substance abuse, mental health problems, suicidal ideation or behavior, pseudo-neurologic symptoms, antisocial traits, self-injury, abuse their own children – hm, not one word about causing habitual procrastination.

My mother died back in March of 2006. She was 81. I know the paper said 82, but that was a mistake – my mistake. She would have been 82 on May 1st. My father died in August of 1990.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure I have enough marbles left to write this. All I have to do is start, which I already have, and stay at it, which is always the hard part for me.

What compels me, you might wonder. I’ve given that quite a bit of thought over the years. I assure you, it has nothing to do with getting even, or whining, or making excuses… well, maybe a little bit of that. Best I can figure is it’s a normal reaction to the great lengths my parents went to to keep everything secret. I want people to know what went on back then, what I went through, how it affected me. I feel obligated to let them know.

Of course, I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m a pity glutton.

Let me google that… there are only two references to “pity glutton,” the earliest refers to my short story “The Kid Who Beat Mosconi,” which I wrote several years back. The second is from a blog posted by some other guy dated January 1, 2009. I use the term to describe one who gets off on telling people their personal hard luck story in an effort to elicit sympathy and pity. The pity glutton is so eager to arouse the sympathetic response that he or she will resort to anything, including bending the facts, deviating from them completely, and desperate fabrications.

I’m closely related to more than one pity glutton, but I believe that’s coincidental rather than genetic. Regardless, I would never want to be mistaken for one of them.

So, that’s about it. Once again my efforts to tell my story have been thwarted. I might as well give up on it, at least until next time…

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