Talking to some other friends who have had past life memories, I’m pretty sure this is going to be a long-term thing for me. This isn’t something that will just go a way as soon as I tell it.
Talking about things has helped me immensely, but I lived what was considered a respectable amount of time for a farm hand in 1915. I dodged disease, malnutrition, and the rigors of manual labor, and I was near the end of my life expectancy for the year I was born. In that time, I had a complete life and in the few months of the war I experienced enough terror for a few lifetimes. If the memories are still there, they will continue to surface for years to come, just like the bones of my comrades out near Bellewaerde Ridge.
I hope in the mean time that someone is reading this and actually gains some understanding of what a horrible mistake it is to wage war before all other options have been exhausted. Those scars don’t end on the battlefield, they don’t end in field hospitals, they don’t even end with the grave or when the last survivors have died, lonely supercentenarians. Those scars reach across time and cut those of us who were born guiltless.
Those friends I have made in the last few months who have had similar experiences are starting to become a very important support system for me, and I feel fortunate to live in an age where communication has gotten so easy.
Still, for all the friends I’ve made, I lost many. Some may be 2 or 3 lives down the road by now, none of them remember me, and I can barely recall more than a few faces. I am the only one from my regiment who still remembers. I am the only one that got through.