Experiencing death before words

One morning I suddenly realised my parents did give me a knowledge of great value. They will never know. They were born around 1916 and died in 2007. I learned that it is a dramatic difference between being told about danger and death and actually meeting it.
As a baby, I think I knew about death before I learned what any spoken or written word meant. During my first year, the second world war was going on. Sweden as a nation was not directly engaged in it. But we were undoubtedly threatened by it. I guess no individual in Europe could miss the atmosphere spreading from the battle of Stalingrad. I imagine that this condition did set the base tone for my mother when she was breastfeeding her first child, me. Eleven months later, death came even closer. My aunt died in an accident. I presume my mother did emotionally disappear into her sorrow. I did not detect any early warning signal.
I learned this the hard way. I learned death before anything else. As a consequence, I am afraid of terminating anything. That includes a relation, a habit, an ongoing project or my ownership of things. It does even include the burden of being clever beyond my capacity and not to trust anyone else in handling myself.
Furthermore, I learned to accept even mediocre conditions for living. One consequence is positive. I go along and accept life as it is. Another is negative. I stay far too long in conditions and habits that need to be terminated. I have impregnated my living with fearing death beyond the level of words.
This minute one questionable habit is on stage. I do write in my black notebook every day. I have done so for more than 60 years. I have engraved this habit in my soul as a way to handle myself. By writing down what is disturbing me, I dismiss that from my daily agenda. The material in question stay forgotten and I could go on following the track I believed was my track. This habit makes me rely on words, thinking and my intellect. This activity shadows what I feel.
A lot of material has been stored in my unconscious. Stuff that can be used either way: creatively or destructively. Recently this has become evident when I write. I freewrite and detect that my act reveals a lot of words. Some are distracting. Others carry ideas looking bright and fresh. I need to sift out the nuggets and leave to mud and sand. I see no simple solution. Each statement has to be judged by its quality. Previous sentences or the act of writing itself does not make me accept each sentence coming out. It is hard work to build my trust in the words I write. My experience in writing about technical stuff is of no help. In this case the statements to trust rest on firm evidence and scientific facts. For me, personal statements are far more difficult to judge. It does takes time as I have to let them rest for at least a month. Then, I could see more clear what my written words tell. My image of what I want them to tell shadows what they might tell the reader.