Of Memories Dark and Light
Cynthia Joan Porter

 

The folks at Kodak would have us believe that memories are the good times of our lives forever captured on a glossy card. Even the resonance in the word memories tends to stir one’s sentimental nature. Last year, when my sister died of lung cancer, I discovered a much darker side to memories; a side that’s ugly, painful, and nearly impossible to forget.

For weeks after Christa’s passing my brain seemed to idle on the most awful moments of her battle against the vile disease. Images raged through my mind—Christa coughing, vomiting, or dropping to the floor like a rag doll, lumps of brown hair left on her pillow, bruised veins, a bulging tumor on her neck, her precious arm purple and bloated from a botched transfusion. I could no more stop these memories than I could stop a raging hurricane.

“It’s part of the mourning process,” my grief therapist said.

“Well, it doesn’t work for me,” I said. “I want to remember the fun stuff, not the horrible months that took her away.”

That night the solution came to me in the form of another memory conking me in the head like a can of V-8.

I recalled standing before a few dozen of my fellow therapists at a seminar in Manhattan. I had planned to demonstrate a basic guided relaxation experience for my final presentation of the day. The savvy group of therapists seemed hungry for more. I decided to show them an advanced technique for dealing with destructive memories.

“Can any of you think of a negative event that brings about harmful emotions?” I asked.

A young, dark-haired woman in the second row raised her hand and then quickly dropped it in her lap. Because of the sadness in her eyes, I wanted to comfort her and somehow guide her back to herself. “Would you like to come up?”

She nodded and walked to the stage. She wore an ankle-length, ebony dress, black shoes with thick heels, and heavy hose. While dark clothing is not a rare sight in New York, this woman reminded me of a feral cat ready to bolt.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Nell.”

“Okay, Nell, when you remember the negative event, is it in color or black-and-white?”

“I don’t see anything at all,” she replied.

Nell’s response was no surprise. When asked to access the memory, she never moved her eyes. This particular memory was one Nell wanted to keep hidden.

“Would you do me a favor and look up?” I gestured toward the ceiling. “Now, is it in color or black-and-white?”

Fat tears sprang to Nell’s eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She turned her head away from the audience and sobbed.

What kind of past trauma had caused such pain? A young, attractive woman such as Nell should have the world as her oyster, yet she chose to give all her power to a single memory.

“Is that past memory serving you in some way?” I asked.

“No!” She glared at me.

“Would you be willing to talk about the experience?”

She wiped her tears and shrugged. “I suppose so.” With a sigh, the words tumbled out.

While jogging late at night in Central Park she was accosted and raped by five men. She had felt trapped with no way out. She was left for dead after the attack. If another jogger hadn’t heard her screams, she felt she might have died.

My mind raced. Never before had any of my volunteers revealed in front of a large group an experience so brutal and traumatic. Why had Nell agreed to do this? And what had I gotten myself into?

“Were the perpetrators caught and convicted?” I asked.

“No,” she replied, “they never were found, and that was four years ago.”

“What’s happened in your personal life since that day?”

Before the rape, Nell ran a thriving counseling practice that since had dwindled to a handful of patients. She rarely went out, never dated, no longer exercised, and felt tired all the time. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” Nell said, shoulders slumping, limp hair hanging in her face.

“What do you think is worse,” I asked. “Being raped once or being raped over and over for four long years?”

Her head shot up and she stared at me, eyes wide. “How can you ask such a question?” Neither is good, and the thought of being raped over and over is terrible.”

“Without your knowledge, Nell, that is exactly what your subconscious mind is doing. As long as you are unwilling to forgive, forget, and move on, your subconscious mind must keep the memory alive.”

Nell’s gaze never left my face. “Think of it this way,” I said. “If you leave the lights on when you go on vacation, you will come home to a very high electric bill because you used up all that energy. You are giving so much energy to this past event; you don’t have any vitality left for your life. It’s as if you’ve left the lights and air conditioning on full blast for four years. No wonder you’re tired and your career is at a dead end.”

Nell nodded, as did many others in the audience.

“Do you always wear black?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied. “I actually have some colorful clothes, but I never feel like wearing them.

It was time for intervention. “Would you be willing to consider the event as if it happened behind you, somewhere in your past?”

Nell’s head bobbed again.

“How far back would you need it stored?”

“At least two hundred feet,” she said.

“As you remember the event now,” I asked, “are you in the event, or are you looking at yourself from a distance?”

“I’ve now put it behind me, so it’s at a distance,” she said.

“Is there silence or sound?”

“I can hear the men grunting and laughing.” She winced.

“What happens when you speed up those sounds so they get faster and faster, like the Chipmunks?” A few people in the audience chuckled. “Imagine it as if you're turning up a record player and the speed is going so fast, you no longer understand the words? Is that less intense or more intense for you?”

“It feels much less intense.” Her face brightened.

“While visiting New York, I’ve seen many joggers out in the morning,” I said. “It looks like a safe time to jog to me. Would you be willing to run in the daytime?”

She seemed to consider this. “I can’t believe I never thought of that myself. It’s so simple.”Nell’s eyes widened and she smiled.

“What just happened?” I asked.

“I thought about starting my day off with a good jog, and it felt great!”

“Was it in color?”

“Yes,” she said, “in brilliant color.”

“Does it have your favorite music in the background?”

“It does now.” She laughed and brushed hair from her face.

“Are you in the event jogging, or are you looking at yourself from a distance?”

“I’m in the event and it feels wonderful to be out running again.” She inhaled deeply as if gulping fresh air.

“What’s happening with the past event now?”

“I really don’t want to think about it, but when I do, it’s in black-and-white, there’s no sound, and it's still, like a photograph. It’s amazing . . .” Her gaze moved around the room as if she’d lost something. “Wow, it’s literally behind me!”

I smiled. “What are you going to do with all this energy you’ve set free?”

“First, I’m going to start running again,” she answered with a broad grin. “Then, I’m going to start putting together a marketing plan for my practice. I know I’m a great therapist, and this experience will make me even better at it.”

When Nell arrived on the second day of the seminar, it looked as if a new person had enrolled in the class. She wore a flowing yellow dress with colorful sandals. She’d styled her hair attractively and her makeup appeared fresh and flattering. What everyone noticed most, however, was Nell’s dazzling smile. We marveled at how one simple shift in Nell’s view of a memory had so thoroughly transformed her.

Now, it was now my turn. I rested in an easy chair and closed my eyes. I allowed the terrible images of Christa’s illness to fill my mind one by one. I turned them to black and white. I removed the sound. I placed them behind me—and I let it all go.

Tears of joy and relief streamed down my cheeks. Once all the dark memories rested behind me, I opened the floodgates to the happy memories of the life Christa and I had shared. Now the two of us hiked in the desert and chatted about nothing. We held newborn kittens and laughed at the silly names we gave them. We walked to the park with our sons, took them trick-or-treating, and then tucked them into Ninja Turtle sleeping bags. We played with splash bombs in her pool, giggled until our sides ached, and sat side by side in her backyard watching an Arizona sunset. A warmth and peacefulness filled me for the first time in months.

And I have Nell to thank for it. Thank you, Nell, for reeing me from my darkness. Thank you for guiding me back to the exquisite memories of a beautiful life shared with my beloved sister.

I suppose Kodak had it right after all; these are the times of our lives.

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Cynthia Joan Porter

CYNTHIA JOAN PORTER is the co-founder of an international franchise, Positive Changes Hypnosis Centers, where she served as Marketing Director for fifteen years. She earned her doctorate in counseling at LaSalle University. She ghostwrote her husband’s first published book, Awaken the Genius, Mind Technology for the 21 st Century, which was awarded “Best How-To Book of 1994.” She later ghostwrote another book for her husband entitled Discover the Language of the Mind, and they co-wrote Six Secrets of G.E.N.I.U.S . Moondance essay, An Angel for Two Sisters, earned her a nomination for a Pushcart Prize.

Cynthia Joan and her husband, Patrick, reside in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Today, while the business she co-founded is “going corporate,” Cynthia Joan is busy with a start up publication called Advertise Virginia (AVA). She also writes sales and fundraising letters, brochures, web pages, and more. She is working on a book about her life as an entrepreneur. Visit her website at www.cynthiajoanporter.com.

Contact Cynthia at: cynthia@cynthiajoanporter.com