In the same vein, it is precisely because these hallucinations are self-generated that they are so believable and vividly remembered, explained psychology professor Dr. Philip Harvey. It’s called the generation effect:63 “Because those hallucinations were self-generated,” Dr. Harvey told me, “you were better able to remember them.”
Although people with schizophrenia exhibit cognitive and memory defects, they can remember just as well as healthy people if they are forced to structure the memory themselves. For example, those with schizophrenia best remember lists of words when they are asked to make a story out of the words rather than straightforward and unaided remembering.
Couple this with the fact that these head trips were intensely emotional and would therefore be tagged as important by the hippocampus and amygdala, both of which were affected by my disease. The amygdala, an almond-shaped structure situated atop the hippocampus, located at the sides of the head above the ears in the temporal lobes, is a structure intimately involved in emotion and memory, helping to choose which memories should be kept and which should be discarded, based on which events have traumatized or excited us.64 The hippocampus tags the memory with context (the hospital room and the purple lady, for example), and the amygdala provides the emotion (fear, excitement, and pain).
When the amygdala stamps the experience with high emotional value, it’s more likely to be preserved, a process called encoding, and eventually made into a memory, called consolidation. The hippocampus and amygdala help encode and consolidate the experience, or make it into a memory that can be retrieved later.65 When any part of this elaborate system is compromised, the memory may not be formed.
Therefore I will likely never forget the time I could age the psychiatrist with my mind, which just shows how fallible memory is. This realization would continue to haunt me.
For instance, I recall with absolute certainty the time I woke up bound by restraints in the hospital’s four-person AMU room, watched over by the “purple lady,” the scene that opens this book. I vividly remember looking down at my right hand and seeing an orange band that read FLIGHT RISK. My family and friends remembered the same thing, so I took this for granted as a truth. The FLIGHT RISK band to me is a fact.
Yet it turns out it was imaginary. When I spoke to nurses and doctors on my floor, they told me that those bands don’t exist. One nurse suggested, “You probably had a FALL RISK band. It wasn’t orange; it was yellow.” My EEG tapes confirmed this. There is no such thing as an orange FLIGHT RISK band.
“When people think about a past event, they can incorporate new information in their recollection, making a new memory,” explained psychologist Elizabeth Loftus. Dr. Loftus has spent a lifetime working on the assumption that memory is often inaccurate.66 In a 1978 study, now presented in most Psych 101 classes, Dr. Loftus showed participants slides of a red car hitting a pedestrian. Although the photographs established that the car had encountered a stop sign, when Dr. Loftus questioned the subject, she inserted intentionally misleading questions, like, “What color was the yield sign?” The study showed that subjects given leading information were more likely to answer incorrectly than those who weren’t. These findings have challenged the power of eyewitness testimony.
A team of New York–based neuroscientists in 2000 demonstrated this assumption in lab rats by testing to see if memories are constantly altered each time we recall them.67 The team uncovered another step in the memory process, called reconsolidation: when a memory is recalled, it’s essentially remade, allowing new (and sometimes wrong) information to filter in. This is normally useful because we need to be able to update our past experiences to reflect present information, but it sometimes creates devious inaccuracies.
Psychology professor Dr. Henry Roedigger calls what happened with the FLIGHT RISK band a form of social contagion: If one person remembers incorrectly and shares this with others, it can spread, like an airborne illness straight out of the movie Outbreak.
Did I harbor this false memory? Was I the one who spread it? I am sure I remember vividly seeing the words FLIGHT RISK on my arm. Or am I?
CHAPTER 52
MADAME X
“Our brains make little stories,” explained Dr. Chris Morrison, the neuropsychologist who had tested me at the hospital, when I interviewed her in December 2010. “It’s possible that when you rehearse things so many times, you start to internalize and believe that you were there. You integrate fragments, scenes of things that you could not truly remember.” Like the FLIGHT RISK band.
Similarly, a retrieval mechanism is triggered in the brain when we see something recognizable. Smells or images will instantly transport us back in time, unlocking forgotten memories. A year after I left the hospital, my friend Colleen took me to a nearby pub called Egan’s.
The name jarred me. Had I been there before? I couldn’t remember.
We walked into the upscale Irish pub and headed toward the bar. Nope. I hadn’t been there. But when I stepped into the central dining room area and caught sight of a magnificent low-hanging chandelier, I knew I had been here before, right before I got sick, with Stephen, his sister, and her husband before that Ryan Adams show. Not only did I remember being here, but I also remembered what I ordered: fish and chips.
Glistening lard. Piles of gluttonously rich, fat-encrusted french fries. I fought the urge to throw up on the table. I tried to make conversation, but all I could concentrate on was the glistening fish and chips.
I couldn’t believe how vividly it came rushing back to me. What else had I forgotten? What else would come back, knocking me off balance and reminding me how tenuous my grip on reality was?
Almost every day, something reemerges. It can be something insignificant, like the moss-colored socks at the hospital, or a simple word, like the time in the drugstore when I saw a box of Colace, the stool softener I had taken at the hospital, and the memories of Nurse Adeline came rushing in with it. During these moments, I can’t help but think that the other Susannah is calling out to me as if to say, I may be gone, but I’m not forgotten. Like the girl in the video: “Please.”
But with every memory I recapture, I know there are hundreds, thousands even, that I cannot conjure up. No matter how many doctors I speak with, no matter how many interviews I conduct or how many notebooks I scavenge, there will be many experiences, bits of my life that have vanished.
One morning, a year after I moved in with Stephen, I finally got around to unpacking boxes from my old apartment. I opened a small box filled with an old, broken hair dryer, some curling irons, a few notebooks, and a small brown paper bag. Inside the paper bag was a postcard of a raven-haired woman. It was a famous painting, and I knew I had seen it before, but it held no context for me:
The woman stands majestically in profile, which exaggerates her downward-sloping nose and long forehead. Her pale skin contrasts sharply against the blackness of her evening dress, which leaves her shoulders bare, only two jeweled straps holding the dress in place. She supports her unnatural pose by leaning the weight of her body on the tips of her right fingers, which are propped against a wooden table; her other hand lifts the hem of her skirt in a queenly fashion. It’s a seductive and artificial pose. To me, she looks at once both haughty and sick, as if too arrogant to admit that she is deathly ill.