Memories can be false in different ways.
While it might be difficult for many people to believe, everyone has false memories. Our memories are generally not as reliable as we think and false memories can form quite easily, even among people who genuinely have very good memories.
Before I tell you my story, let me give you a couple of quick and easy examples of how false memories can be formed, and even, suggested.
For example, a group of participants watched a short clip of a car accident and were then asked some questions about what they saw in the film. Some participants were asked, **‘How fast were the cars going when they ***hit*** each other?’** While others were asked, **‘How fast were the cars going when they ***smashed*** into each other?’** When the participants were given a memory test a week later pertaining to the accident, those who had been asked the ***‘smashed into’*** question, were more likely to have a false memory claiming they remember seeing broken glass in the film, even though there wasn’t.
Ever believed you last saw the keys on the kitchen side when they were actually in the living room, no matter how much you tell yourself that you, *“remember”* seeing them in the kitchen last.
I bet some of you reading may also still think that you you can’t be fooled and that your memory is excellent. Well, now go back and read the starting sentence…did you spot it?…How many of you remember me saying, **‘Let me give you a couple of quick and simple example’?**…Yes? Well, wrong. I never said *simple.*
So, most, if not all of you, can now see just how easy it is to forget or to be fooled by our own minds. We are all remarkably susceptible to suggestion too, which can even create memories of events and experiences that didn’t really happen to us.
I’m now going to tell you a memory I have, and I would like it if could you tell me what you think…
I’m six years old, and my older sister had just died. The only words I remember from my father when hearing the news were, **“hit and run”** and **“dunk.”** I don’t want to go into too much detail here for my own emotional reasons, so I will just outline;; Her name was Helena, five years older than me with chocolate brown hair, she was my best friend and my protector. She was the one who held me while I cried about my scraped knee from falling off my bike. She was the one who would make me laugh after we just got spanked for being naughty. She was my hero, and she was stolen from me.
The night my father told me what had happened, I fell asleep crying. I somehow slumped into the deepest sleep. I was probably half drunk myself just from the fumes that dispersed from my father’s emotional alcoholic breath. Within that deep sleep, I had a dream, that, wasn’t a dream. It felt too real.
Helena had me by the hand, dragging me and running through a wooded area. It reminded me of the small woods near our street where we used to walk the dogs with mum before she left.
**“C’mon hurry up! They’re right behind us!”** Helen’s voice was whispering but shouting at the same time.
We finally stopped in a small clearing which, to be honest, looked exactly like the rest of the woods. Just trees, sticks and mud. I couldn’t see or hear anyone around, but Helena was erratic, very nervous and out of breathe like she had just ran for 50 miles.
**“We only have a couple of minutes before they catch me and take me back.”** She quickly looked around before grabbing me by the shoulders. **“They will soon be here, so listen and never forget. This is not a dream. I am real. I am dead. I am dead but I am real.”**
Something must’ve spooked her, she must’ve heard, *‘them.’*
Still holding tightly on my shoulders, her head did a full 180 to inspect behind her, before quickly spinning back to face me. Her eyes were now fully dilated and her face slowly began twisting and contorting in all directions, like she was being ripped backwards from an unseen force. Before she disappeared forever, Helena’s right hand did one last movement; it somehow stretched around my peripheral vision and to the back of my head. I felt something enter my skin and she whispered, **“Never forget…”**
I awoke with a start. Tears still streaming down my face. Sweat soaked my sheets, my pillows and my pyjamas. I was hot and out of breath from the nightmare I had just experienced. My tiny young mind was moving a million miles per hour, trying to fathom what had just happened. Something felt different though. The back of my neck hurt, and not just stiff like I had laid funny or twisted it during the dream. No, this hurt like something was *in* my neck. My hand hesitantly went to the pain filled area…and that’s when I stopped breathing.
To my absolute horror, *something* was now threaded just under my skin at the nape of my neck. Naturally, I freaked. Touching it over and over with different fingers and in different ways, forming an image in my head from the touch, like a blind person would touch and imagine facial features. It was thin, about 2 or 3 inches long with sharp points at each ends. I had to get it out. I had to see what it was. From what I could feel, it wasn’t too deep under the skin, so I started to dig. Using both hands wrapped around my own neck, my fingernails catching the sharp pointy ends of the unknown object. I started to imaging a huge splinter of some kind, and remembered how my mum scratched out a deep splinter I once had in my hand. I pushed down on one end of the object so the other end would raise and protrude out of my skin. With my other finger, I scratched an opening and pushed. I scratched and pushed until that mysterious object finally erupted through. I sat on my bed in confusion and fear. I held in my hand, covered in my blood and bits of torn off skin, a toothpick.
Now, please remember, I was six years old, terrified from the nightmare and now, no more Helena to console me. I ran to the bathroom and flushed that fucker down the toilet.
I don’t remember falling back to sleep or even walking back to my bedroom, the next thing I remember is waking up the next morning to my father shouting my name.
In a daze and still exhausted from my nights experience, I made my way downstairs rubbing my eyes awake. I expected to see either the police or the ambulance service in my living room asking questions, or some distant family member crying and surrounding my father with love, like how I’d seen in the movies or TV programmes. But there was no one. My father placed my breakfast on the dining room table, just like he did every morning, but this time, he laid just one placemat.
My eyes slowly filled with tears as I tentatively asked my father, **” Can we still put a placemat down for Helena please?”**
My father didn’t pause or react emotionally in any way. He just carried on serving breakfast with his toothpick rolling around in his front teeth like always, and replied with a strange smile full of confusion. **“Who’s Helena?”**
All I can say from here, is I was absolutely terrified of my father after that, and I never spoke of Helena again.
I’m now in my 30’s and my relationship with my father is non existent. He still lives in that same house I grew up in, and unfortunately, I haven’t been able to escape my home town either, and only live 5 minutes away.
Last week, I decided to walk my dog, Milo, down memory lane, and took him to that same wooded area located near my old street.
About an hour into our walk, we came across a clearing. Sticks, stones and mud surrounded by tress in an almost perfect circular shape. Nothing special about the area, just that it seemed familiar.
**“Milo, c’mon mate.”** He didn’t respond. Just his nose sniffing and rifling deeper into the ground.
**“Milo stop it mate, c’mon.”** He didn’t listen. Instead he stopped at nothing to find what laid beneath. He finally ceased digging with a yelp and leapt from the hole he had just created.
I nervously looked inside, and to my absolute shock, there were hundreds of broken and unbroken toothpicks.
Now I know what you’re thinking, why not check for her birth records or go to the police with this knowledge and information? Trust me, I tried.
The only Helena ***Last name omitted*** on records around that time, was a death certificate stating she died 9 years previously due to infections. She was just 18 months old. There is no birth certificate for her though, so no parental names to follow up on.
Armed with as much ammunition and information I had, I finally contacted the police and told them my story and suspicions about my father. After hours and hours of questioning, the police concluded that there wasn’t enough evidence to progress forward, and advised me to see a psychologist. This is where I’m told about how fallible memory can be.
***“Memory isn’t static. It’s fickle, ever changing, and easily tampered with. Like a patchwork quilt that can be ripped, torn, and remade….”*** Says my psychologist.
So, where am I now? Lost, confused, and honestly, still scared.
From what you have learned here, please, tell me…what do you think happened? Are my memories of my sister real?…