When We Change Our Thoughts, Our Memories Change

Last week, I stayed with friends over the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, and found myself reminiscing about my parents a lot, telling uplifting and funny stories about our lives together. My friends found this remarkable; they have known me for years and never heard me say so many nice things about my mother and father. (I haven't heard me do that very much either!)

Apparently, in recent years, there has been a shift in the way I remember life events. In the past, the sad stories crowded out the happy ones. I knew I had an unhappy childhood, that nobody loved me, that there was something wrong with me, that my parents did everything wrong, and that I was scarred for life by broken romances, physical problems, nasty bosses, cult brainwashing, emotional and sexual abuse, the 9-11 terror attacks. These days, I remember a lot more of the "happy dreams"...so much so that, when I'm reminded of my former ways of being and thinking, it's as if I'm experiencing my life as a movie I once saw, or a book I once read, in which there was a character I no longer recognize as myself. There's no denial in it; it's just that I don't see a problem. You could call it "post-traumatic peace order." And that's amazing, because for about 30 years, I was a poster child for PTSD.

Why are upsetting events generally more memorable than happy or neutral ones? I just read this in the December 1, 2007 issue of Bottom Line newsletter:

"Negative emotions, such as fear and sadness, cause increased activity in a part of the brain linked to memories, so bad memories are recalled easily. Positive emotions don't have the same effect. Possible reason: In evolutionary terms, it makes sense to focus on potentially threatening information to protect against future dangers." —Elizabeth Kensinger, PhD., assistant professor, department of psychology, Boston College

A subquestion of Question Three of The Work, "What do you get for holding this belief?"—what is the payoff, or how does believing this thought serve you?—speaks to this phenomenon. The most common answer to this question is, in a word, protection. "I don't have to face the unknown," for example, or "I reject myself before he rejects me," or "I'll be prepared for the worst," or "It motivates me to work hard and avert disaster," or "I shield myself from blame."


Perhaps when we realize that the motive for holding stressful beliefs doesn't eliminate the fear—and therefore, the beliefs don't actually protect us from anything—there's no real reason to cling to them. At this point we can also notice that there was nothing to protect against: in this moment, all is well, unless and until we say differently. The "negative" memory loses its power to direct the course of our relationships and our lives.

We get further reinforcement from the turnarounds, where we provide genuine examples, from our experience, that demonstrate the opposite of our original beliefs. As we continue to inquire, thoughts that used to be habitual don't arise as frequently or with as much "charge."

I'm no neurobiologist, but I'd wager that this process of inquiry somehow overrides or re-circuits the brain's hard-wiring for memory so that there is no need to vigilantly refer to what was previously so upsetting. That is why the memory itself can appear to change.

Case in point: while staffing the School for The Work not long ago, I heard Byron Katie give some specifics about how confused she had been before "getting a clue" in 1986. She said, for example, that if she moved one hand one way, she would have to move the other hand the same way; otherwise she felt unbalanced. She also shared that there was always a song in her head. She mentioned a few more OCD symptoms she'd had, and as I listened to her, I remembered, as if in a dream, a miserable and frightened 43-year-old woman attending her first School for The Work in 2001, who'd had the exact same "quirks" since childhood. Katie was describing herself prior to her "undoing," and she was also describing me, prior to questioning my thoughts. I'd forgotten some of those behaviors and symptoms I used to have.

Later I told her this, and also that I used to have to breathe in rhythm to the songs in my head.

"Oh, sweetheart," she responded, with tears in her eyes, "the breathing thing." She'd had it too...and, like me, she had forgotten.

Lately the "earworm' (repetitive song in the head) has come back to visit; triggered, perhaps, by a few weeks of rehearsing tunes for a show I performed in. As I lie awake at night, waiting for sleep to come, a song is there, or it's not; it's not a problem. I am being breathed; there's no rhythm to it, I'm not doing it. The memory of a song sings itself. I see my mother and father in my mind. They are doing what they did—is it true?—and I notice, as I never did when they were alive, how much I love them.


©2007 by Carol L. Skolnick; all rights reserved.

Did It Happen?

I was in the first grade, so I was six or seven years old, depending on the time of year.

A tall man in a suit came to our classroom, and spoke to our teacher, Mrs. Berger, for a few minutes. I'd never seen him before; he wasn't one of the parents, one of the teachers, nor was he the principal.

Mrs. Berger asked John Doria and me to go out into the hall with the man.

The man spoke nicely to us. He must have told us his name, but I don't remember. He asked us our names.

"Carol."

"John."

"Do you want to marry her?"

"Nooooo!" (Giggles from both of us.)

"Do you want to marry him?"

"Nooooo!" (More giggles.) (I probably would have answered "yes" if John hadn't answered "no." He was smart, super-cute, and already knew now to play the guitar.)

I don't remember what else he asked us before thanking us, shaking our little hands, and sending us back to class.

I never asked our teacher what that was all about (most likely I was too busy learning how to read and such)...I never told my parents about it (I had bigger fish to fry, such as whining for a pair of "go-go" boots)...but I never forgot the incident either. Years later, I had lots of thoughts about this brief, enigmatic encounter.

-We were being auditioned for the TV show, "Candid Camera."
-The man was a school psychologist, and our teacher thought John and I were "troubled."
-He was a researcher, tallying first-graders' responses to the question, "Do you want to marry her/him?"
-They should have asked our parents' permission to speak to a strange man.
-John and I were special.

It's amazing how the mind travels for years around something seemingly insignificant, lasting no longer than five minutes, more than 40 years ago.

Then, there's the nature of memory and it's unreliability. Did this happen? Did it happen as I remember it? Why, out of millions of five-minute scenarios in my life, do I remember and focus on this one? What's unresolved about it for me?

We could say I missed my chance at TV stardom...if in fact there had ever been a chance. Or, that if I'd been on TV, it would have made me a "star." Does anyone today—other than their families—remember any of those little cuties saying and doing wonderfully bright or outrageous things on Candid Camera? (If not, it could be a huge relief to those 50 to 60-year-old children today!)

"John didn't love me." Now there's a stressful thought! Sigh...the story of my life, "The men I like don't like me." But I've only believed it for 49 years.

It could be that my teacher thought I was troubled. So what? She wouldn't be the first, or only one, to believe this. My mother kept me out of school a lot that year, initially because of an intense and lengthy allergic reaction I had to a gamma globulin shot...later because she didn't have the energy to make sure I went to school. There was plenty of drama at home, and in my head.

The real question is, did I think I was troubled? I remember feeling scared of some adults, being insecure around other children my age, and getting very angry with my parents for infractions "real" and imagined. I was sassy, headstrong, bratty, and funny; by five or six I was already a great mimic, doing impressions of my grandfather snoring, and of characters from the Bugs Bunny cartoons. I was very interested in reading books, play-acting, singing, watching television, playing with my older cousins, visiting my grandparents, and drawing pictures. I liked school; I also liked staying home, whether sick or pretending to be. When I go back in time to re-experience my six-year-old self, I can't honestly find a troubled child. I find someone startlingly like the person writing this today, albeit lots smaller, and a bit more confused.

"He was a researcher." No biggie, except I might think that research on the things children say is a silly waste of time. Mind likes to qualify everything.

"People shouldn't talk to kids without their parents' permission." I knew not to talk to strangers in the street because, you know, something terrible could happen. Not that it couldn't, but this was a school corridor in a benign section of Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, not Belfast, Bosnia, or Bedford-Stuyvesant...and even if it had been one of those places, where's the proof of imminent danger?

A lot of thoughts flow from being "special," mostly ones that result in feelings of regret ("I didn't live up to my potential"), separation, and loneliness ("I wasn't like the other kids"; "I am smarter than others").

Today I am seeing this memory as a sweet visitation of what is not. The memory has brought some friends along this time. The doorbell rings, I answer it, welcome my visitors, hear them, love them, and say goodbye, until we meet again.


©2007 by Carol L. Skolnick; all rights reserved.

The Rocky, Horrific Picture Show

by Carol L. Skolnick

One of the subquestions of The Work of Byron Katie is, "What pictures,
if any, come to mind when you think that thought?" Sometimes when I ask
that question, I get a funny reaction from my clients. "Pictures?!?!!"

Actually it's a really good question. We all know about running "tapes"
in our minds (although soon that term is going to be as extinct as the
dinosaur. There are audiophiles alive today who have never even laid
eyes on a cassette tape or a reel-to-reel.) Many of us also run films (or
insert your favorite and more up-to-date visual media here).

Think about it. Your partner says or does something that irks you. If
you don't inquire into your thoughts about what he or she said or did,
doesn't your mind revisit past irksome episodes? That's how we come to
form core beliefs like "She never misses an opportunity to criticize me"
or "Men always leave the seat up."

What about self-judgments? You hear the internal tape-loop of thoughts
like "I'm not good enough." When that happens, do you flash on specific
incidents of feeling that way? Last one picked for the school
volleyball team? Stammering repeatedly during your big presentation? Beloved
leaves you for someone else?

Sitting with the images of your past that come to mind when you attach
to a belief is a most effective way to deepen Transformational Inquiry.
Let the movie of your life be your guide to other subquestions, such as
"How have you lived your life because you've believed that thought?"
"Is this where addictions kick in and you reach for food, alcohol, credit
cards, the TV remote?" "Where does your mind travel when you think that
thought?" "Does this thought bring peace or stress into your life?"

"Work of the eyes is done,
now go and do heart work on
all the images imprisoned within you."
—Rainer Maria Rilke


Deepening Transformational Inquiry: The Horror Show of the Future

Let's look at a stressful thought about someone in your life who upsets
you. "Always" and "never" thoughts are great ones for this exercise.

If you have children, you might relate to this one: "My son/daughter
never listens."

If you've ever had this thought about your child, probably you can
concoct an image very quickly of your offspring preoccupied with a game or
with internet chat when you've told them three times to come to the
dinner table or to go to bed.

Now put this thought into the future; what pictures do you see when you
think of your child years from now and you hold the belief "He/she
doesn't listen"? What do you fear will happen to your child?

Child rolling eyes as you lecture them about how they need to pay
attention?
High school dropout?
Unresponsive spouse whose wife/husband/partner leaves him/her in short
order?
Clueless parent?
Total failure?

What do you assume will happen to you if you didn't believe this
thought? Watch the images:

Screaming yourself hoarse for years until the kid grows up and leaves
home.
Called into school for conferences with disapproving teachers.
Old and alone and begging your child for assistance...and your pleas
fall on deaf ears?
The "coulda/shoulda/woulda" scenarios of what an ineffective parent
you've been all these years and how you might have done it differently?

Are you enjoying these movies?

If not, what do you get for holding this belief? Can you see a reason
to drop it?

Turn the thought around: "My son/daughter always listens."

In what ways is that turnaround as true or truer? What pictures come to
mind when you see, perhaps for the first time, the listening, attentive
child in your life?


©2006 Carol L. Skolnick. All rights reserved.