Samantha Jane Buice

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

Sometimes the most convincing comedian is hurting on the inside, while those around him laugh at his intentional hilarity. The joker lacks the smile he conjures on their faces. He lives in a state of invisible despair. Depression takes root, an overbearing monster.

Monsters are created in the dark, but they cannot hide forever. They linger in the deepest closets of our minds; they conceal themselves under our beds, and create shadows on the walls of our childhood, lurking in the recesses of our memories. Some monsters are able to take complete control, while others are suppressed with medication. In many cases, a monster surfaces whenever it pleases, despite the wishes of its host.

Lacking aid and support, rising from a troubled past, and developed over time, the monster grows. In some cases, a “villain” is created. Tragically, the person carrying the monster is often accused for crimes, due to the fact that someone must be held accountable, and the monster is intangible. Blameless, the depression ravages the mind, roaming free while the person takes the fall.

When I watch films, I have sympathy for the “bad guy,” knowing how difficult it is to deal with these issues, especially alone. These characters, fictional or not, are suffering on the inside. Every case of psychiatric disorder is unique and often damaging. We all have a past, and some are without control of their own life, born with an illness they cannot bear. Monsters wreak havoc and sometimes violence is a side-effect.

I recently watched a movie about the creation of the “Joker,” a popular super villain. He wrote a note stating that the worst thing about having mental illness is that people expect you to behave as if you don’t.

We shut the windows, lock the doors, wrap ourselves in tight blankets. If we cannot see the world, the world cannot see us. We hide to protect ourselves in a cruel world, avoiding eye contact, ashamed of our “flaws.” There will always be people who do not understand, who claim “normalcy” in order to shift attention from their imperfections. Mental illness is a sensitive topic of conversation, but hear me when I say that we are not broken. Hiding feels safe, but can be quite a burden. Remember that you are not alone.

A message for all loved ones: Keep close watch over your jokers.

–SJB

Tomorrow is my 36th birthday!!

My life has been touched by so many others. Today, I celebrate those in my life who have made me smile and laugh, have offered their assistance without question, cried with me, listened to me, and made me feel special. My life has not been perfect, but I was given the key ingredients for a great one. I am surrounded by people who bring joy into my soul, where I feel loved, happy, and blessed. Thank you for your unconditional love and support in my life.

Big shout out to Mom and Dad! Thanks!!

–SJB

Trauma stops time. We are forever held captive, despite our many travels around the sun. Eleven years ago, my life was frozen.

I understand that memories can be distorted, but some of them are never forgotten.

March 6th, 2013

I panicked. I called my best friend and really scared her; she thought that my distress was due to a car accident, or something more tangible. My dad came upstairs to my bedroom and spoke to her through my phone; he told her I was alright. My meds were off and I was manic. My doctor couldn’t be reached. I packed a bag.

They administered shots before I was admitted to the hospital. They took away my stuffed animal, my books, and my Birkenstocks. They told me I could keep my hoodie, but had to cut the strings. I did.

The kitchen was closed when I arrived, and I had not eaten dinner. I tried to take a shower, but was told it wasn’t “shower time.” I did not sleep.

March 7th, 2013

In the morning, I ate breakfast with strangers. I was in pain, as I had a shot of Zyprexa (antipsychotic) moments before. I had refused oral medication.

My sketch book was allowed, as were my colored pencils; that was my outlet. Shrouded in my hoodie, I disappeared in a corner; my imagination granted me solitude and means to escape.

March 14th, 2013

I continued to refuse oral medication, so my condition worsened. The orderlies tasked with administering shots in vulnerable spots on my body became wary of me. At that time, I was hostile, and had steadily honed not only my body, but my words into weapons.

March 14th, 2013: Lunch

The strangers I dined with on that first night quickly became my best friends. There was; however, a problem. I had begun to black out frequently. I was punished often, for offenses I couldn’t recall. Randomly, I stood and spouted terrible things about my fellows. I would then snap out of it and sit down, observing astonished faces. Shortly thereafter, I was carted off to eat lunch alone.

Friday, January 5th, 2024

Throughout the last decade, I have been painting, writing, drawing, coloring, and studying. These activities have aided my healing process. Released from psychiatric facilities across the country, I built a life based on study and creative outlets to cope with persistent issues and side-effects. My illness progressed and I now have trouble with my short-term memory. I tell stories and repeat myself. I strive to push these tales out in order to move on, much to the dismay of those close to me (people who have heard them countless times). The details are hazy.

I hear voices within my mind. They do not approach me audibly. My voices are peaceful and friendly, but there is a darkness inside me I cannot control in my own voice. Sometimes the “blackout voice” emerges, though I mean no harm. It surfaces unbidden. I know a lot about mental illness, especially my own, but I do not know everything. If you run across this voice, please know that I mean no offense, and that I am actively working to harness this obstacle.

–SJB

–SJB

The holidays are happy times for many people. However; they are also a terrible pain for others. Falling on hard times financially. Sickness. Loss of loved ones. It is one of the seasons that takes the most lives. Here is the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, in case you or someone you love is even thinking about this idea. NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) has more information and aid. There is plenty of help when/if you need it.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

988

Imagination lives inside our minds, invisible to the naked eye. We witness the unfolding of our thoughts, alone. Does that make them delusions? Where do we draw that line?

In childhood, art seeped through my pores. I expressed myself with ink, color, and words. Children’s books flowed from my fingers like fluid speech; my typewriter became an extension of myself.

Without imagination, my world would be dark. An environment void of creativity is unfathomable. However, for a twelve-year-old girl struggling with her first signs of depression, my darkness was leading me into that cavern. I knew nothing about delusions and their possible connections to my imagination.

Years later, dancing between depression and mania, I had a psychotic break. When I was twenty-five years old, I checked into a psychiatric hospital, where the “schizo” part of my disorder came out to play. I had hallucinations, nightmares, and delusions. These are events I could never have imagined. I was filled with untruths, convinced they were facts. During this period in my life, I coped with madness by utilizing words and colors. My imagination was my safe haven, the location of my inner peace.

I believe that delusions differ from imagination in many ways, though they share key ingredients. Both are intangible, but delusions cause us to reach an edge and blindly fall into chaos. Imagination is kept secret in our minds, a place only we can visit. We are free to wander safely and dive head first into an abyss of our choosing. Imagination is openly followed. Delusions are intruders.

–SJB

We exist in a world where children swipe to turn a page. They live and breathe for their online presence, and are addicted to social media. Suggestions like “Play outside for a while,” aren’t received with enthusiasm. Trees go unclimbed. Rivers run empty. Nature holds her breath. Virtual reality has conquered the homes of unsuspecting victims, creeping inside with the first computer game. Climbing a tree is difficult. It requires rising from a chair and expending effort for what might be considered a waste of time. I remember the wind in my hair, a feeling of accomplishment, a bird’s-eye view. In my childhood, climbing a tree was one of the most rewarding activities, and emerging from a plunge into cold, white water is so refreshing it feels like a baptism. I feel so fortunate to have grown up in this generation, running through the woods like Pocahontas.

Today, there are commercials on television about aiding the imaginations of children. Our future is in their hands, and some cannot grasp a life full of difficult decisions without help. Imagination creates inventors, scientists, doctors, teachers, and all other useful careers. It is devastating to watch young minds melt behind their screens. Imagination used to come as easily as common sense. Now, it is learned.

Imagination and reality are equally important. I hope that one day, Pocahontas will run through the open minds of children as freely as she does in mine.

–SJB

I have an excellent long term memory. I recall events and moments from my earliest years, details most have forgotten. I remember the scrubs my mom wore when she worked the night shift at the hospital in Virginia, crawling to the front door to greet her in the early morning. I have one of her faded long-sleeved shirts with an image of a musician neither she nor I can identify. I wear that shirt when I don’t want to worry over what to wear. It makes me feel at home, like she’s hugging me. When I wear it, I never feel self-conscious.

There are clips in my mind of birthday parties, quotes between adults, faint smells. My Granmama died when I was eighteen, but I still remember her scent. I visit her when I sleep.

I have cloudy recollections from the day I first met my little sister, and remember my disappointment when I realized that she wasn’t already old enough to play with me.

When I was two years old, I had an imaginary friend (a leaf) called “Mousy.” When I rode on my dad’s shoulders to day care, he would point to rustling leaves and say, “Look, Samantha! There’s Mousy!” to which I answered, “No, Daddy. That’s not him.”

***

Though I have several early memories, my disorder has stolen my short term. Often I forget what I am trying to say mid-sentence. More frequently, I forget what I wanted to say at all. I repeat myself incessantly. Many of my blog articles touch the same thoughts and toss around similar words, but I know that repeating my stories is a coping mechanism, an attempt to banish the pain; it lingers deep inside my mind, barely tangible but never forgotten. Trauma is a visitor who overstays his welcome.

I am grateful for the memories I cherish. They swirl around me on blustery days. Grasping these moments aids me on my life long quest to remember who I am.

–SJB

On this special occasion, we surround ourselves with family and friends, celebrating the light in our lives. We practice gratitude for the blessings bestowed upon us; we appreciate the love that has enveloped us throughout our childhood, the growth and lessons we have learned along the way.

Life’s journey has been kinder to some than to others. This is a time to show love and compassion for the less fortunate. Everyone deserves help and community.

When I was in elementary school, we celebrated Valentine’s Day. We decorated shoe boxes and slit holes in the top to resemble piggy banks. Our parents bought fun cards, we signed them and stuffed them into our friends’ boxes. All of the cards had different slogans, so we shared the more intimate cards with our closer friends. The kids with whom we rarely conversed received the leftovers. Those children were often excluded from our birthday parties, as well. We are all equal, in the past and in the present. Some kids drew the short straws. Today, let us welcome these people to the table. We must spread our love beyond the reach of our arms and be grateful for the hands that we hold.

Remembering the important blessings and people in our lives, let us give thanks, eat until we can barely move, and take really long naps.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving!

–SJB