Samantha Jane Buice

Everyone experiences guilt. Oft times, blame is misplaced. It is natural when we are hurting to harbor ill will toward a tangible culprit. In some cases, however, the object of our frustrations is invisible. Psychiatric disorders can uproot lives, yet we cannot see them with our eyes. This causes confusion, doubt, and misunderstanding. In which direction should we point our fingers?

Parents and loved ones of those suffering with mental illness are also in pain. There are many stages of this illness, some more crippling than others, so how can the people in our lives help us?

First, you must understand that this is not your fault. These cases are not due to the “sins of the father.” We are not apples that fall too close to the tree, in every sense. I believe we dance off the tree in our own directions, to find our own way. It is necessary for the trees to grow with us. Support is key. Our illnesses do not define us, and you remind us of that every day. We are not broken, though it certainly feels that way sometimes. Knowing you are in our lives gives us energy to continue dancing. Listen, guide, but do not force.

Life is filled with trauma from which you cannot protect us. Life is not fair. Not to anyone. We can all stare into the faces of our worst fears; they do not always disappear, though sometimes confronting our darkest moments can lead us into the light. Lend us your ears, hands, shoulders, and hearts. Banish thoughts of blame and guilt, as we look to you for solidity. We may fight with you, get angry, try to push you away. Understand that we appreciate you and this is not always reflected in our behavior. Love is the most powerful gift you can bestow. We need you, though we may be unable to ask for your help. At times you will feel you are failing. This is not the truth, and no one is perfect. Thank you for your patience.

Let us all leave our guilt in the past and move forward together, one step at a time.

–SJB

Mom, I hope you are listening.

There are billions of shoes in this world. Different sizes, shapes, colors. Shoes are designed for every day wear, special occasions, sports, and weather. Some shoes have matches, much to the dismay of children who can’t decide which pair to wear and wish to settle for both. Shoes can be uncomfortable and sometimes we are forced to wear them even while we scream the entire time they are donned, the socks bunched up at the toe. They can put us in a bad mood. Favorite shoes can lift our spirits and brighten our day. There are those of us who prefer not to wear shoes at all.

Once, there was a little girl and a pair of shoes so glamorous that even though they did not fit right away, she waited patiently with the hope that one day they would. At the age of four, she anticipated the day when her feet could fill a Women’s Size 9. Tucked under an arm, the shoes snoozed while she slumbered.

She aged ever so slowly. She wore other shoes. She had favorites, but she coveted this particular pair. She tried them on every day when she woke up, hoping for change. “One day, any day now,” she thought. She turned five. She turned six. Her feet grew, but somehow they were never the perfect size.When she was in the fifth grade, her feet stopped growing.

The shoes never did fit this little Women’s Size 7 “Cinderella.” It was disappointing to discover that all of this waiting had been in vain. “How could these heels tease me for so many years?” “Maybe they were not meant to be mine.” “Am I an evil stepsister, attempting to shove my feet into an unattainable dream?” Is it worth achieving success if you cut off your toes in order to fit into a life not suited for you?

There are many paths in life, many shoes to choose. We wear the shoes we are given until we grow out of them. Sometimes we don’t grow into the pair of shoes we dream of, but we can run along the path barefoot while we chase another.

–SJB

In 2013, during my stay in the first psychiatric hospital I visited, I bestowed upon everyone a fairytale name. Somehow, this made it easier to remember their real ones. Now I only remember their false names, save for a few. I named my best friend “Robin.” That is not his real name, but out of respect I will not share it. I do remember his name, though. He was not an imaginary friend, but a true one.

Robin and I spent many hours together, drawing and coloring. We spoke about complicated issues in our lives; had similar obstacles. Masks were not necessary, and truth flowed freely between us. Above all, we were good company for one another. I found it new and exciting to be understood and touched by the absence of judgement. It can be lonely in the “real” world, surrounded by people who cannot possibly see through our eyes.

For the past few days, a robin has been visiting the same patch of grass outside my kitchen window. I believe he is checking on me. Or, he is catching an early worm. He reminded me of my Robin. A warm feeling spreads in my heart when I think about him, followed by heartache. I miss him.

The closest friends I have ever encountered are unreachable. We didn’t share contact information, so sometimes I feel a little lost. I don’t know if Robin is stable, in a hospital, alive, or living a beautiful life. I can only hope he is happy, wherever he dwells. I may never see him again, but in my forest of friends, the trees sway together.

–SJB

Many years ago, I learned that routine is important in the life of someone who cannot remember appointments, loses track of time, and generally lets the day slip away without bearing much fruit. Routine is beneficial for people who often say, “I will do that tomorrow,” but “tomorrow” never arrives. Yesterdays are empty. Delayed gratification does not exist without structure.

I am one of those people.

My evening routine includes a cup of calming tea. I start to relax, losing touch with reality as I am engrossed in the pages of a novel. I typically cannot finish my tea before an ear-splitting scream emits from my phone; my alarm commanding the consumption of my meds. Hot tea does not mix well with cold water, so my stomach is uneasy for a while after. Every night, when that alarm startles me I ask myself quietly, “Why me?” “Why did this happen to me?” I feel a touch of resentment, but also a drive to help others; a sense of purpose.

Life is more difficult for some than for others. There are homeless people on the streets speaking audibly to the voices in their heads. Cardboard boxes once full of refrigerators house starving individuals who cannot afford proper medical care. Communities are assembled under bridges in order to protect and shelter people without the ability to hold jobs due to mental instability. I know how fortunate I am, resting in a warm bed, my voices contained inside my head. I frequently wonder why my mind is so drastically unique. I may never know why the burden of mental illness has been draped across my shoulders. Carrying that weight has strengthened my core. I realize that though my life is a roller coaster, there aren’t any empty seats on this ride.

–SJB

*In case you don’t recognize the little guy with magenta horns, his name is “Berman,” and he is the personification of my mental illness*

***

Upon my initial visit with a new general practitioner, a nurse calculated my blood pressure and weight. I was evaluated based on a series of questions about depression. Do I often feel anxious? Am I often lethargic? Do I have negative thoughts? Am I suicidal, or a danger to myself and others? I answered these inquiries truthfully. When I met the doctor, she asked similar questions. I entered the building expecting to be physically examined. Within the course of fifteen minutes, my file contained her diagnosis.

“Mental Problem.”

***

I grew up in an environment rich with kindness, encouragement, and unquestionable love. My dad taught me how to draw and my parents nourished my creative energy. As a young artist, I was easily frustrated when my artwork did not reflect the images in my mind, but I pushed past this problem and began to enjoy the process. Fortunately, my life began with family support. My parents taught me to be myself, inspired me to make friends, to love my neighbors as myself, to solve problems with words. When words did not solve my problems, I ran fast; my dad would cheer, “Run like the wind!” My mom called me a “gazelle.” I wasn’t running away. I was running through.

My sisters proved that love at first sight is true, as I gazed upon their faces in the earliest moments of life. I had not smiled as wide, or laughed as loud before they were born; my only disappointment was that they didn’t enter this world capable of playing immediately. Problems like that were resolved years later, much to my chagrin. My family tree grew and was not complete until everyone was wrapped around each other. Our unconditional love binds us together at the roots.

Problems can be solved. Living with five other people was irritating at times. We argued, but we love each other more than petty disagreements. Our problems were solvable. Psychiatric illnesses are not problems; they do not cease to exist. Mental illness survives medication and therapy, though these are helpful tools. “Berman” roams freely through my mind, fully confident that he can squat there for as long as he desires.

Problems suggest fault. Blame. Conflict. Words are powerful; they have the ability to drag us down or to lift us up. Where others see problems, I witness strength. Mental illness is not a problem, but a journey. Some may think that the words “illness” and “problem” could be interchangeable, like “crazy” or “mad.”

Loosely worded, I may be “crazy,” but I don’t have a problem.

–SJB

A familiar face crosses your path. You have no desire to strike up a conversation, so you greet your neighbor with a rhetorical question.

“Hi! How are you?”

Your acquaintance responds in turn.

“Good! How are you?”

“Good!”

Then you both resume your separate agendas. Why? What is the point of this shallow greeting? Does “Hi!” not serve this purpose anymore? We plaster fake smiles across our facades like masks. We don’t mind if someone is not “Good!” Many people breeze through this encounter so quickly that it has become habit; it is an extension of “Hello.” We don’t ask, “How are you, really?”

On occasion, we are elated! Seeking praise for accomplishing a daunting task will ensue a string of words you weren’t expecting when you asked the question. If you weren’t prepared for a response, you should have left it at “Hi!” and continued on your way. This might become a lengthly conversation.

Sometimes, we don’t feel “good.” I think many believe it isn’t okay to not be okay. It is. Everyone has a bad day or two, some worse than others. When quicksand has gathered at your feet and is slowly pulling you under, it is difficult to keep your head above ground. Dread swallows you when your library books are overdue and you haven’t the motivation to return them. You can barely rise from bed, feet reluctant to touch the floor. A shower is out of the question, and you don’t remember the last time you washed your hair. If you have the energy for a walk, you are sure to meet a neighbor who will ask, “How are you?” It is almost impossible to lift your face into a smile.

My therapist informed me that not being “in the mood” is not laziness or procrastination. With a mood disorder, there are times when a person is not in the mood to face life’s challenges, no matter how small. As a result, I have not written a blog in two weeks.

Writing and illustrating are the key ingredients in my recipe for happiness. Sometimes I forget how important my creativity is to my wellbeing. When I return to a project, I disappear into a world of color and magic I cannot find elsewhere. I recommend adding some form of artistic outlet to your life. It helps to keep the peace in body and mind. I am lost without my sketchbook.

How am I? Good!

How am I, really? Healing. Generally happy.

How are you?

How are you, really?

–SJB

*Serotonin is a chemical in your brain that sparks happiness*

Every good day begins with coffee. I have been in the habit of ordering large, expensive drinks full of sugar and espresso. This sustenance sits in my stomach, curbing my appetite until dinner time. The lack of food intake is dangerous, considering all of the medications I currently consume. Vegetables do not make the cut in my daily diet. I do not drink enough water. Needless to say, I do not treat my body like a temple.

Since the age of sixteen, I have been struggling with my weight. I was eight pounds heavier than average, but eighteen away from my ideal. I began a diet consisting of slimming shakes and diet sodas. I was on the high school cross country team and running all the time, but I was never satisfied with the number on the scale. Once I accomplished my goal, I thought, “Yay! I’m skinny! I can eat whatever I want!” The cycle continued, throughout my life. Up and down.

When I was committed to a hospital in south Georgia, I forgot how to eat and nearly starved to death. I was skin and bones when I was transferred to a hospital in Maryland. During my visit, one of the medications I ingested was causing rapid weight gain. I was released two months later, weighing an extra 90lbs.

“They” said it would take approximately two years for my brain trauma to subside after the hospital experience and electroconvulsive therapy. After eleven years, the pain has abated and the events are cloudy; I rarely think about those days, though this is part of my story. There are; however, memories that linger. Tucked away in a bright corner of my mind, these memories are not wholly unpleasant. I made friends, I laughed, I created art. I was surrounded by people without judgement. These friends understood the struggle, we had nothing to hide from each other, and felt no need to cover our wounds. Surrounded by my fellows, who had become my family, I experienced serotonin in the form of unconditional love.

Exercise also boosts serotonin levels. I have injuries which prevent me from running. Nothing else captures that joy, that high, that feeling of accomplishment. My dad and I work out together. I have been riding the stationary bike, almost catching that high; I feel elated and exhausted. We work out during the day, with many retirees. The older athletes are dedicated and friendly. I don’t listen to music, as we converse jovially. I am inspired. Quickly, I joined this new family. I am on my way to healthiness, but have reached happiness. I am no longer starving, but filled with strength.

–SJB

We recently celebrated Valentine’s Day. Traditionally, this is a day to commemorate our romantic relationships with chocolate, flowers, and babysitters. In my experience, there are three versions of love, including but not necessarily romantic love.

Infatuation/Lust:

You meet a “tall, dark and handsome,” probably online. Sparks fly on the first date, fireworks erupt when you first kiss. Your “butterflies” are reciprocated. Most of the time is spent “cuddling.” This is the beginning. Lust hovers over the relationship, blinding view of the red flags. Quite possibly, you will soon fall out of bed and open your eyes. This is hardly love. “But” ignorance is bliss.

In Love/Honeymoon Love

Everything is new and exciting. A couple has passed the “infatuation” phase, yet that is possibly where they began. People can fall in and out of love, over the course of a long-term commitment. Hopefully they built a relationship on a foundation of friendship, because sadly, the “honeymoon” stage doesn’t last forever.

Unconditional Love

*When a statement is followed by “but,” it cannot be entirely factual.

*”You have completed all tasks. I am so proud of you, but this part needs improvement.”

*”Everything is under control, but backup would be great…”

*”I love you, but this is what you could change.”

When a relationship is solid, whether it is romantic, friendship, or family there are no buts. This love is bone deep. Loving someone with your whole heart requires diligence. A person cannot love another unconditionally if they can cast them aside when they are “finished.” When someone says, “I was going to tell you I love you, but…not anymore,” it is not love, but a lie. Real love is not easy. Hard work is involved. Truly loving someone is refusing to give up when times are difficult. Unconditional love is beautiful and stands the test of time.

On this day and all days, celebrate your love…without buts.

–SJB

In a world wrought with technology, we are abandoning our social skills; personal connections are hanging by threads as the ropes of technology grow taut. Essentially, we are inching toward isolation from ourselves and the rest of humanity. We teeter on the tightrope, oblivious of the depths below us. What happens when we can no longer look each other in the eye? I believe that if there were a way to physically insert oneself into the virtual world, many would attempt that feat. Most are nearly there already. We are sleepwalkers.

I am not very old, but Once Upon a Time…

People read books that required the labor of turning a page. News was gathered by word and on paper. Television was our “screen time.” We had to wait a week for the next episode of our favorite shows. They were not streamable. It was tradition in our family to celebrate Friday night with pizza and a movie. We ordered five dollar pizza from a human employee, and chose a VHS tape from Blockbuster. We always followed the policy of “Be kind. Rewind.” Today, we have a wide selection of streamable movies and shows. We don’t even have to leave the comfort of our living rooms. Pizza costs forty dollars and we order it from our mobile phones with an automated “employee.”

There were no mobile phones. “Selfies” weren’t possible. Photographs were printed and people returned in several days to retrieve and pay for them. One hour photos were a breakthrough. There were no texts. Students discreetly passed notes on folded college ruled paper. Personally, I prefer that method. There was a greater risk of getting caught, and that was exciting. Finding handwritten notes in our lockers was fun.

The internet did not exist. Knowledge was obtained from encyclopedias. Social media was unfathomable. Eyes were not glued to phones. People counted their steps without fancy wrist watches, and looked up to observe their surroundings. Trees were climbed; children swam without long sleeves.

Call me old fashioned, but I like to look at people when I speak to them. My husband makes fun of me for “bothering” strangers by requesting advice from fellow grocery shoppers about their preferences for household products. Sometimes I need fresh eyes when in search of an item I have probably been staring at for a few minutes without success. When my husband and I get lost, instead of driving around in circles listening to a frustrating automated voice, I ask a human for directions. I start conversations and no one is a stranger; everyone is a person. I value “face time,” over Face Time.

Today, we so heavily rely on technology that when it crashes, we are lost. Once, my husband left the house without informing me of his whereabouts, left his phone, and his car was gone. I panicked when I realized I had no way to reach him. Impatiently, I awaited his return. Twenty years ago, I may not have reacted this way. He could go about his business and I would not worry. Technology has created this panic. Now, immersed in the virtual world, we are crippled when it fails us. Has “face time” become extinct?”

–SJB

I apologize for my lack of words last week. I have much to share, but need some time to gather my thoughts.

Everyone deserves a vacation, right?

–SJB