Author: Samantha Jane Buice

This photo was taken when I was ten years old. I speak of this day quite often, perhaps because I am so grateful for achieving my goals and living my dreams. In my elementary school, there was a week in which every day had a different theme. All of the students dressed accordingly. “Spirit Week.” This particular day was Career Day. I dreamed of becoming an author and illustrator. I packed a bag full of pens, pencils, paper, and books; my typewriter was too heavy to carry around school all day. It was a bit cumbersome. I donned my famous, favorite green dress. This dress is famous because I wore it all the time and the memory of it is burned in the minds of all bystanders in my childhood. My mom promised me that though we haven’t seen that dress in decades, she did not throw it out. Clothed and comfortable, I set out, knowing not what my future would hold, but stepping into the beginning of a long story.

In 1995, when I was seven years old, I received the first-place award for Young Georgia Authors. My story was titled, “A Cat Named Fred.” It was a cute little story. The judges’ decision may have heavily leaned in my direction considering that I had typed my piece, but it was a start. I kept that trophy. It sits on my desk, a constant reminder of key ingredients within myself, pieces of me flooding the canvas with words.

I have been writing and illustrating children’s books far longer than I can remember, knowing they would go unpublished but basking in mirth. I saved them all, but they are solely my own. I share a sacred bond with my childhood words. I had help with the illustrations sometimes. My little sister, Kimberly, sat with me as I created. She looked over my shoulder and made suggestions, watching the images appear. We filled those pages with our sisterly secrets.

I never stopped writing. I published a few poems in high school. I keep a journal, make notes, and research. I love to rescue forgotten words and expand my vocabulary. Reading, writing, drawing, and coloring have always been my favorite activities. Incorporating my experience with art and psychiatric disorders within my work has changed my life. My wish is to share my knowledge, experience, and passion to help other struggling souls. This has become my life’s purpose.

My story continues.

–SJB

Earlier this week, I went to see my primary care physician. I haven’t had one in years, so there was a lot of paperwork to fill out and much to discuss. I was a bit disgruntled when her final instructions were to “eat more and drink more water.” Why did I go to the doctor?

When the visit was over, the physician printed an overview of the appointment results. The report included items of personal information about me, which she deemed relevant to the case. There, stated quite plainly, were two words that upset me more than I thought they could. According to my physician, I have a “mental problem.” When you sign a release form, all of your doctors have access to all of your records. She approached my psychiatric disorder with slight prejudice, throwing a blanket of stigma over an issue that affects my life so greatly. How many “problems” lie under that blanket? When I realized she had access to files I did not wish to share with her, I felt exposed; my problems were laid bare. The blanket was ripped off, as if it were a Monday morning and I was late for school.

Funny how words can twist and turn based on how they are configured. “Mental problem” is a label even if it is meant to simplify the records, but I find it is cold and insensitive. The truth is, “mental illness,” “psychiatric disorder,” “delusional,” and even “crazy,” touch the same line, but for reasons I do not understand, some of those words are offensive, even when they are not meant to be harmful. Mental illness does sometimes feel like a problem, but it is not unsolvable. Years of experience have taught me that, “How are you doing?” sounds better than, “Have you taken your meds?” or, “Are you okay?” They all convey the same message, but delivery is key. A problem can be solved.

—SJB

***Disclaimer: In my experience, solving a “problem” does not indicate curing an illness, but striving for stability and reaching for sanity. I recommend handling these issues with professional help.

I am not a licensed professional and cannot diagnose. These articles are solely based on my own knowledge and experience, in an attempt to aid the struggling and their families.

In case you have not noticed, for the past two Fridays, my articles have been published later than routinely scheduled. I have been throwing myself into preparations for my third book. I assure you that I am not creatively exhausted and have not been drained of words. My weeks have been flying by, and the truth is, I forgot! I sincerely apologize. I hope you will forgive me, not turn away, and continue to read my articles!

My memory defects are directly related to a few medications I am currently prescribed. It is a side effect I must endure, for the alternative would be detrimental. I think that many people choose the path of self-medicating, living in a state of denial, ashamed or terrified to admit that they may need help; among other reasons. I am completely onboard the train leading toward healing with medications and talk therapy. There are side-effects. Many rare side-effects beset my mind; most can be found in the fine print. My psychologist has said, “I love your brain,” and my psychiatrists have called me a “special case.”

When I was in the hospital in 2013, a last resort was performed. Electroconvulsive therapy. My body was hooked to many wires, so that while seizers were induced in my brain, my body would not seize during the process. I woke up from those procedures with confusion and enormous headaches. I do not know what damage this may have caused to my memory, or how much progress was made, but at that point, I did not recognize my parents. Needless to say, I have come a long way.

Though I have many issues related to my mind, memory is the most tragic loss. I cannot guarantee that all articles will arrive as scheduled, or will be forgotten, but I ask for your understanding. I hope this will not be a regular occurrence, but I have not forgotten YOU.

–SJB

When I was fifteen years old, I embarrassed myself. It was not my intention, but despite my efforts to fit in with the crowd, I did not. No one wished to be close to me. No one wished to date me. I had few friends, but that year, I behaved so strangely that I am not surprised. Though there are people in my life who love me unconditionally, they had trouble keeping up with me as I followed a dark, blinding path. They trod close behind me into deep, cold waters, and we faced much confusion. I was certain that there was something “wrong” with me, but the mania colored the waters a bright, sunny blue; the path full of light and life. It was dangerous, false happiness fueled by an incessant flow of high energy.

I do not recall most of my freshman year of high school. Broken pieces of memories flood my mind when I think about those days. I talked more than I walked. It never stopped. My mind spit out all of my thoughts, without a filter. My speech was slurred, and words tumbled over each other on their mission to escape my mouth. I spent money frivolously. Quicksand pulled me under, in the form of credit card debt. Free money!! No.

I stayed up late, believing that sleep was a waste of time. My handwriting became sloppy and scribbly. I was more creative, finished projects early, was never late, and had excellent grades. I overextended myself, made promises I could not keep. I was never hungry and didn’t have time in my day devoted to eating.

I knew something was “off,” but had no idea it could be fixed. I thought I was stuck this way forever. I appealed to my parents for help, and my dad drove me to a psychiatrist, where I was diagnosed with bipolar 1 disorder. It was the greatest sense of relief I had ever felt in my life, even to this day. I could not be cured, but I could be treated. There was nothing to be ashamed about, no reason to be embarrassed, and I wasn’t alone! I will never forget that day, because it was the beginning of a story I would someday tell the world.

–SJB

Living with a psychiatric disorder can be crippling. Some people find it difficult to hold a job, maintain relationships, to get out of bed. I have experienced first-hand the strain involved in faking a smile. Oft times I have wondered, “Why?” Why are people born with, or develop mental illness at some point in their lives? Answering my own question as best I can, it seems there is not a single person alive on this planet who does not have a psychiatric disorder of some kind. People are afraid to be diagnosed, to be labeled, to be treated differently than if they were “normal.” Many people are too proud to accept the fact that they need help, so they fail to seek aid. Mental illness makes waves we are not all equipped to surf. Believing there is no hope, no cure, and no support causes panic to rise and we drown in the idea that we are “stuck” like this forever. Follow the golden rays emitted from the lighthouse and know that you are not alone; there are ways to prevent a permanent collision.

Here are some methods of preventing that collision:

When I feel anxious, I curl up in my weighted blanket and experience security. I also take deep breaths to avoid panic attacks, which cannot always be prevented.

I avoid known triggers, such as food or drink that remind me of false happiness and send me spiraling. My food triggers are apple juice, and buttered brown sugar oatmeal. There are other triggers; listening to certain songs or reading particular memoirs upset my stomach. When I surround myself with too much information about psychiatric disorders, I sometimes feel revved up.

When I feel depressed, it is a huge ordeal to leave my cozy bed, my feet refusing to carry my weight. It takes much energy to fake a smile. My therapist says that on days like those I am not lazy, I am not “in the mood.” My mood disorder prevents me from being productive when I feel so low. It is especially difficult to find time returning library books or focusing on many other menial tasks. Anxiety can trigger depression. Depression can cause anxiety. My husband and I often have goofy photo shoots, just the two of us making silly faces. I print them and whenever we feel low or grumpy, we pull out that album and laugh until our stomachs ache, tears threatening to spill. Works every time.

I hope this is helpful. If you want more information, look back at some of my previous articles for more details.

I apologize for the delay in publishing this article! Have a great weekend!

—SJB

Once upon a time…

On the 13th of January, 1988, in the late hours of night and the wee hours of morning, a child was born without breath. To my knowledge, a trauma such as this can trigger the onset of psychiatric disorders in a child’s future. Her mother was a nurse and worked in the neonatal intensive care unit for a few years prior. She knew that a baby’s first breath comes out of a confused, disoriented scream. This outburst did not occur immediately after her child’s birth. The baby and her father were rushed to a room where the fluid in her lungs was extracted. Dad reached through the crowd of doctors surrounding his daughter and squeezed her tiny hand. She breathed. Thirty-five years later, she still breathes (it’s my birthday).

—SJB

One can hear, and not absorb the contents of the substance meeting their ears. To hear is not to listen. We are all guilty of growing bored of a conversation and “checking out.” Our eyes glaze over, napping while awake, pretending to listen. Some people have the gift of selective hearing. Words stream into one ear and out the other; we capture enough bits and pieces to carry on a conversation without remaining truly present. When we hear a story often, our minds fade into the background; we reach for the next moment, a chance to break away. There are people to avoid, opportunities to avert our attention elsewhere. I believe that every voice strives to be heard; but when we hear voices, others often pay them no mind. They are invisible, yet they are certainly present. Without hard proof, many people do not acknowledge the “super natural.” Some cannot hear, and choose not to listen to those most in need of an ear or a shoulder. Hearing is not listening, which leads to the wide gap between knowing and understanding.

Society has grown more tolerant, sensitive, knowledgeable about psychiatric disorders, but the stigma remains. We teeter on the edge of acceptance and denial. Knowing facts and studying areas of psychiatry is a step in the positive direction, but there is much to learn, and sufficient room for growth. Knowing all the facts, or nearly everything the textbooks provide, does not scratch the surface of understanding. Hearing is the first step, but let the words settle. Let them in. Listen, and embrace the struggling with open arms.

–SJB

In 1995, when phones were attached to walls and the internet was young, reading was much greater fun than watching television. During the course of my early education, I was an avid reader. I didn’t have a tablet or an iPhone. I read books. Remember that? My school had a competition between students who read the most books within a certain time period. My rival, Derrick Dendy, was always rising higher to the top as I trailed close behind. Very close behind. Today would have been Derrick’s 35th birthday. One could not deny that he was the fastest reader in the fifth grade. He always read thick, detailed, tiny print books. I have to admit that I read a lot of books, but did not hold a candle to Derrick Dendy. He had his nose stuck so far into his books; I am quite surprised they didn’t swallow him. He was relentless. I imagine he read books in his sleep. Those are my excuses for not ever catching up to him, not for lack of trying. After a while, I referred to him as “Reader One,” since I was always “Reader One2,” NOT “Reader Two.” Years later, I looked him up and found out about his critical heart disease. I sent him a message to ask him how many books he had read that summer, and he said, “Six.” “UGH!” I thought, having only read five. I know he is in an enormous library I plan to visit in my future, smiling down at me, having forever achieved the status of “Reader One.”

Happy birthday, old friend.

–SJB

Happy Holidays from Samantha Jane Buice, Rush Smith, and Logan Smith Buice (who thinks all of the presents are for him).

P.S.

*This post was meant for Friday (I was experiencing some technical difficulties).

I apologize for the delay,

wishing you all a Happy Holiday!*

–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

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline – Call 988
If you or someone you know is in crisis—whether they are considering suicide or not—please call the toll-free Lifeline to speak with a trained crisis counselor 24/7

The NAMI HelpLine can be reached Monday through Friday, 10 a.m. – 10 p.m., ET.
1-800-950-NAMI (6264) or info@nami.org