Misremembered Confabulations
As a student of the practice of keeping a journal, writing reflectively, practicing gratitude, and processing memories, I have long understood that my relationship to past events influences how I tell my story and how I move into the future.
Summer 2024 has augmented my learning quotient on these same topics and once again, life has handed me a solid experience related to remembering a memory that I don’t remember. A misremembered memory, if you will.
It’s another oxymoron of our humanness as we continue learning about ourselves — with all due respect, we remember the past in a thousand shades of grey and illusionn.
Shown to the right is a grainy image from my 1974 high school year book. According to my spunky classmate of 50 years ago, the classmate who has been accorded the status “Classmate with the Best Memory”, showed me the photo at our reunion on July 21, 2024, it is a photograph of me.
“Look Lorraine, here is a picture of you! Guys and Dolls – do you remember? You even had a speaking part!” Frederik declares gleefully while I am registering skepticism and disbelief. I was puzzled; flummoxed; off my pins. I couldn’t remember or recognize myself and was left struggling to remember something that wasn’t within my memory.
Oh yes, I remember that I was a performer in the musical. I remember and can still sing some of the lyrics to some of songs. I remember the volunteer choreographers as enthusiastic parents who were heavily invested and committed to our success. I remember a general buzz and enthusiasm for the talent of our onstage performers and there is a celebratory air, but I hadn’t looked at my 1974 high school yearbook, for over 40 years, maybe longer. Now I was being presented with a photo and date-stamped evidence that located me in a time-space dimension that was confusing, out of focus, and next to impossible to embrace as me in this chapter my teenage life story.
Fifty years ago, I was 18, about to graduate from Grade 13 (yes, Grade 13) and the image shows me standing in uniform with a hat on my head, hands prayerfully clasped across my chest and a facial expression that registers worry, concern and apprehension. I read about my character, General Matilda Cartwright, online and cringed a bit as some vague inklings began to flicker.
My question to others, “Is this really a photo of me?”
Frederik was leader of the “Yes” campaign. I was leader of the “I don’t think so’s”.
Frederik didn’t need to do any research, because he was certain.
My skepticism had me asking others. My sister Donna wasn’t sure. Classmate Susan understood my waffle and agreed that it might not be me. That said, neither Susan nor Donna were in attendance for the event, and I had to accept that they were not credible witnesses. That lead to further soul searching, sifting through memories, writing in my journal, talking to others while fearing the obvious existential curiosities related to memory loss and aging.
Finally, I contacted the leading lady, Daphne (who played Adelaide with tremendous talent and flair) to help me verify the truth. Daphne kindly replied in an email with an attachment. Daphne wrote, “My Mum and Dad had a small photo album with G and D photos in it. Dad even saved the program, so here you have proof! The part of General Cartwright was played by Lorrie Carson. So yes, those are your legs, and the photo is of you.”
Right. Okay. End of story. Except…
It’s a very strange zone to enter. I was presented with a gift of a memory that I had forgotten. It takes an investment of time and energy to consider the story, in order to reconstruct an event that isn’t really a personal memory, but something delivered from afar.
I am partially comforted by the insights of researchers who have publications on the topics of “Confabulation” and “Misremembering..
I have read the research and even written about it myself! Ultimately, I find consolation by rereading my own words on page 89 of An Ecology of Gratitude:
“We misremember details, make assumptions, get distracted or pay less-than-full attention. Our cognitive thought processes—and the voices in our head—can blur the details. Memories hold elements of reality, experience, imprecise perspective and cultural bias. When it comes to retelling a story or reporting an event, we tend to remember a mashup of what actually happened, and what we imagine having happened. What’s more, every player and voice in our head takes part in the retelling, and our mind’s cast of characters make assumptions that may or may not be true.”
I could go on. But, for now, I will accept myself as I was and reassure myself that I am no longer that person. Now I am putting this memory back into box in my brain labelled: Mashed up Memories and Confabulations.
Finally, I am resolving to give myself some grace, with. As I grow older and realizing that:
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My memory as an 18-year-old has gaps.
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Over the years between sometime way back then, and now, my memory is vague to non-existent. I misremember things.
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My misremembered and absent memory at this point in time may well be a function of me with teen-aged angst, rather than me as an elder. I do remember a chronic condition of yearning for social acceptance, belonging and inclusion, related to the core human need of significance. I am comforted by the word “confabulation”.
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Maybe it was a time of extreme “Imposter Syndrome” – a possible explanation for what my brain was actually processing: self-doubt and angst-related fears such as lack of intellect, skill, ability. I was neither an actor nor a soul-saving missionary of the goody-two-shoes variety.
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In my leadership role as Head Girl, I was doing the best I could, given the tools in my 18-year-old tool box of sheltered experience and lame duck learnings.
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Box of Confabulations now closing, although, I am certain I would have benefited from a skilled mentor or coach.
How about you?
Do you have an unresolved, fuzzy or vague memory that someone has handed to you, or which has unexpectedly popped up in your head. Is there something demanding you to take some time and pay attention?
Try writing about it. Some details may come back slowly. Others may gush. Whatever you find, as you unpack your confabulations, be sure to reframe the learnings with kindness, empathy and the realization that although our DNA remains the same, much has changed. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Intellectually. Gratitude offers solid ground and offers a safe landing pad. Need some prompts or encouragement to get writing?
