Memory of a Green Slipper

When I was 7 years, 2 months, and 2 days old, my mother walked down the stairs into the basement of our house at 169 Falmouth Street in the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn, undid one end of the clothes line that was strung between two water pipes, took one of the chairs that my father used when he and his friends played pinochle most Thursday nights, positioned the chair under the rope, and then stepped with her right then her left foot.

When I got home from school that day, I found a green slipper on the basement floor.

That is the clearest memory I have of the day when I was 7 years, 2 months, and 2 days old — a green slipper. You’d think I would remember more.

After all, I remember my first day of school. I remember the day I learned how to ride a two-wheeled bike. I remember what I had for breakfast this morning — coffee, two eggs, some fruit. I remember the day I got a dog. How can it be that a green slipper is the main thing I remember of the most consequential day of my life?

How could I remember so little?

How could I forget so much?

The truth is I didn’t forget. The truth is I didn’t remember because the memory never got fully integrated. Or, at least what memory there is, was made in a different way. It’s a different kind of memory organized in different parts of the brain without hippocampal integration. It’s a memory that’s in pieces — not whole. And, thus, hard to recall.

All perception, whether from an internal or external source, gets routed through the thalamus, the brain’s central wheelhouse. The thalamus receives all sensory input (except smell), and sends it to the cortex where it is integrated with past experience, current context, and expectation. This integration involves a complex interaction among different parts of the brain, including (but not limited to) the prefrontal cortex, the hippocampus (a part of the temporal lobe), and the sub-cortex, especially the amygdala, where emotional reactions are generated and stored.

One critical point is that cortical integration involves multiple synapses — multiple relays — between multiple neurons. Each relay takes time. It takes time for stimuli to be introduced, adjusted, and refined — usually in the prefrontal cortex where current perceptions are held in what is called "working memory" — with multimodal data coordinated through the hippocampus and the emotional content generated in the amygdala. It is the prefrontal cortex in collaboration with these other neural systems that organizes and finally directs the incoming sensations back through the hippocampus into long-term memory, where formal, organized memory is generated. This organization, synthesis, and elaboration takes time before memory can be said to be whole.

And one other thing. There is one other thing I remember from that day.

On the way home from school that day, I got into a snowball fight with a kid in the fourth grade. It’s a bad idea to get into a snowball fight with a kid in the fourth grade when you’re in the first. They’re bigger. They throw harder. And if you try to run away, they grab your hat and throw it on the ground. And when you come back to pick it up, they throw a snowball right at your head.

I saw stars. I almost cried. I had my hat.

And then I remembered we were going to Florida. On a train! In a day or two or five. “I’m going to Florida,” I said defiantly to the fourth-grade kid. “Who cares?” he sneered as he moved away.

I walked home reminding myself about Florida whenever my head started to hurt, whenever I wanted to cry. I remember all that. I remember the kid’s name was "Seth."

When I got home, I threw my hat and my coat into the chest by the door. “Mommy?” I called out.

I went to the kitchen. There was a glass of milk and two cookies on the table. I took a bite of the cookie – chocolate chip, my favorite. I thought about Florida. I had never been to Florida. I had never been on a train. I had never been out of Brooklyn.

“Mommy!” I called out again.

I walked back into the hall. The basement door was open. The basement door is not supposed to be open. She never leaves the basement door —

“Mommy?”

But maybe that’s where she was — in the basement doing the wash. Getting ready for Florida. Maybe that’s where she was.

I looked down the stairs.

“Mommy?”

I took another bite of the cookie.

“Mommy?”

When a rat pup is separated from the dam, it sniffs, grooms, gnaws. It emits distress vocalizations. Levels of neurotransmitters rise — dopamine, noradrenaline, serotonin, cortisol.

“Mommy?”

Up to a point these increases focus attention and facilitate cortical transmission — especially in the prefrontal cortex, the hippocampus, and the subcortical nuclei with the final integration mediated by the neurons in the prefrontal cortex. However, with increasing fear, the rising neurotransmitters begin to inhibit cortical integration.

I took a step down.

“Mommy?”

As I stepped down the stairs, I counted. "One, two." I always counted. I don’t know why.

At a certain point, elevated levels of neurotransmitters, especially noradrenaline and cortisol, inhibit transmission through the prefrontal cortex and facilitate transmission through the evolutionarily more primitive subcortical pathways — the amygdala and the dorsal striatum where emotion and behavior are joined into sensorimotor fragments — fragments of intense emotion and involuntary motoric response — and thus the terrified animal freezes and remembers no more.

“Mommy?” I called out once more.

And thus, sensorimotor associations are laid down. The animal does not remember what happened. It only remembers the fear.

“Mommy?”

Perceptions are isolated. Context is lost. But transmission is faster because there are fewer synapses. When threatened, evolution "decided" it was best to act fast. And to think later — if you survive. And if you survive, the salient features of what you had seen, felt, and heard are seared into subcortical memory. You remember the emotion but not much more.

“Mommy?” I took another step.

Then I sat down.

And then I counted. There were four more steps to the cellar floor. Four back up to the door. Four and four plus the one I was on —

“Mommy?”

I noticed that one of the steps was missing linoleum squares.

“Mommy?”

A rat pup’s distress vocalizations are aimed at bringing the dam back. Failure to return results in despair.

I kept staring at the last stair.

“Mommy.”

I counted again. There had always been ten. But now there were nine. That made no sense. I looked behind. Four steps. I looked below. Five. Four and five –

And that’s when I realized that I had been wrong. That’s when I realized I hadn’t been staring at the cellar floor. That’s when I realized —

“Mommy?”

Because of the shift away from the prefrontal cortex and the hippocampus to the amygdala and subcortical structures, traumatic memories tend to be experienced as isolated sensations without context.

“Mommy?”

A slipper.

A green slipper was lying right there on the cellar floor. It was as if nothing else existed except that slipper. It was as if that slipper were a magical slipper that had powers and stories to tell —the way Cinderella told stories, the way Babar told stories, the way my mother told stories. And all I had to do was keep staring at that slipper and I would have a story. My very own story. All I had to do was keep staring, and keep counting.

All I had to do—

And then I stopped staring.

And then I stopped counting.

And then I looked up.

I don’t remember standing. I remember an ironing board. I remember an overturned chair. I remember a green slipper dangling in air. I remember the stairs. I remember the last step was missing linoleum squares.

When I was 7 years, 2 months, and 2 days old, my mother killed herself.

I remember the pieces.

I don’t remember the whole.

If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. For help 24/7 dial 988 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, or reach out to the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741. To find a therapist near you, visit the Psychology Today Therapy Directory.