Author: Samantha Jane Buice

Mom huddled beside me at the bottom of the stairs. She treated my depression as if it were as serious as the flu. Now I know it’s more like invisible flu.

In my life, pockets are sanctuary for idle hands. In group settings, I do not know what to do with my hands; a dress with pockets or a sweatshirt with a hood give me comfort. When I was in the eighth grade, my family moved from a town with no secrets to a large world without pockets. I was immensely overwhelmed. I could feel the depression eating me alive, swallowing me whole. I thought it would pass, but it only got worse. The dreadful stomachaches began when I was twelve. I had no psychiatrist, only a pediatrician. He couldn’t put a finger on it. There wasn’t clear evidence of physical ailment, so he was out of his element.

This part is important and doesn’t apply to everyone. I learned it the hard way. Those in dire need of help often do not receive it. I discovered-in my journey through school- that help was available to me and I was unaware. Therefore; I did not benefit from services provided. I suffered greatly through school, nearly failing college. I was not informed about Disability Resources. There is treatment, open doors; help was obtainable. I had to ask. For years I could have been learning at my own pace, taking space, decreasing the burden of stress in my body. Upon this discovery, I was permitted to leave in the middle of a school day to visit my psychiatrist and enjoy lunch before returning to class. I napped in a comfortable chair for hours waiting for my appointments. Sleep is so important when treating my case, and who doesn’t want an afternoon siesta? I did not technically skip school, but my life was much more comfortable than I imagined possible. I urge anyone dealing with these issues to explore this avenue. The illness did not define me, but I had no idea it was real. I thought I was alone.

When we moved to Savannah, Georgia, I was behind in all my classes and dreadful stomachaches occurred often. Reading Greek mythology was more than I could handle in the moment. My mom understood this, and she was a light in my darkness. We finished “The Odyssey” together. My odyssey had just begun.

–SJB

There is no “bipolar.” People use this word to define a person with shifting moods. The word is not the sum of an individual. People are not “bipolar.” People may have Bipolar Disorder, but this is not their identity. The word is carried around, spread like the seeds of a milkweed, birthing dandelions all around the globe. It is a description, a label feeding a stigma. We must be gracious for the medical attention provided us, which in general is almost nothing. The mental health system lacks the appropriate knowledge to serve those most in need. Sometimes I feel we are teaching the doctors who are studying us. There are dandelions in this world who believe that mental illness can be overcome, a weakness to outgrow; believing that full recovery is possible. There is no cure.

Often, I wonder whether or not I would want to be “cured” if possible. How different my life could be. My path has been curvy with many forks, but I believe there is a reason I was born this way. I do not know how to be someone else, and I have accepted my truth long ago. This is not my definition, a label, a stamp across my forehead. I have become friends with my illness and I wouldn’t want that relationship to change. There is not a person who “was” bipolar. Gardens can be well kept, but weeds are consistent.

Perfecting the right cocktail of meds is a nightmare, which often causes side effects such as weight gain, loss of memory, instability and many other physical and mental ailments. I am a firm believer in medications, talk therapy, and psychiatric assistance, but many are not afforded these services. There are herbal remedies and other paths. Unfortunately, when people cannot gain access to these resources, they self medicate with drugs and alcohol. Suffering takes many forms, but we are not defined by our illness. We are not “bipolar,” “psycho,” “crazy,” “schizo,” or “weird.” We are different, and “normal” is boring. You are not alone in this battle. No matter how difficult, we can do this.

–SJB

My Granmama was one of my favorite people in this world. She was lively, adventurous, and wild. She told outlandish tales. She taught her grandchildren the art of storytelling, and she was enrapturing. She was a bright light in my corner, and I never doubted her love for me. She wasn’t perfect, full of chaos, and for Granmama, “Normal” was the greatest insult. Those were some of her most wonderful defining characteristics. Granmama encouraged me to be myself, to let myself feel, to love and cherish my soul. She spoke of the “inner beloved.” Our souls are more important than our bodies. This is the truth we must hold fast, remembering who we are inside.

Granmama didn’t solely voice her feelings of love; her actions spoke louder than her words. She taught me to appreciate nature and practice environmental consciousness. She loved the earth, and taught me the importance of recycling. Sometimes, when I visited her home in Black Mountain, NC I waded in the pond collecting scattered debris. Granmama lived in a house near a small park where we would play, run, and feed ducks. I spent precious moments with my cousins on the bridge playing “Pooh Sticks.” In case that is an activity in which you have not partaken, the rules are simple: Each person chooses a twig and tosses it into the flowing creek on one side of the bridge. All competitors rush to the other side of the bridge, and the twig that takes the lead on its course under the bridge and passes all others wins the round. It may sound silly, because it is. Knowledge of an upcoming visit with Granmama filled me with anticipation. There are many events which trigger anticipation: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Birthdays, etc. Plans to see my Granmama flooded my senses with excitement.

When I was a small child staying overnight with my family at my Granmama’s house, I would wake up before everyone else, on a mission. There was an extremely creaky, swirling blue staircase leading from our downstairs accommodations to my Granmama’s bedroom upstairs. One foot after another, excruciatingly slow, avoiding the groans escaping the old wooden stairs, I emerged victoriously on the top floor. I quietly padded over to my Granmama’s bed. I think she pretended to sleep as I lifted the blankets and crawled in beside her. Now, I know she was expecting me, anticipating my arrival. Then, I thought I was sneaky.

I feel the same anticipation when my husband takes our dog, Logan, outside before bed. In the meantime, I hustle around preparing for bed, expecting him. Without fail, I hear tiny toenails clicking against the hardwood floors as Logan sprints to hop in bed with me every night. It reminds me of my early morning visits with Granmama. I think about her every time.

–SJB

I have known many cats in my life. My family had one cat after another, keeping kittens and their kittens, and their kittens. They were all outdoor cats, but they called us home. “Father Cats” never lingered, and none of those mother cats collected alimony. At the time, it didn’t occur to us that the female cats were not willful participants in the act of reproduction. It just happened to them. You could say that “cats will be cats, and that’s what they do,” but now I have become aware of the process. In my neighborhood today, there are many feral cats. If they do not belong to you, you can take them to the veterinarian and have them spayed or neutered for $25. They are then able to spend their lives lying in the sun, napping with the knowledge that death will not come so quickly.

I have the best neighbors. They are making great efforts to change the lives of these cats; they are neutering and spaying, feeding, supplying water, and in some cases, providing shelter. These acts of kindness reflect the state of the community. If the cat population was able to verbalize its gratitude, the furry entities would be raining thanks upon our little corner of the world.

I had a favorite outdoor cat. My husband and I called her “Mama Cat,” because she was almost always pregnant. The opportunity to spay her was impossible due to this predicament. “Mama Cat” and I shared a special bond. We communicated through eye contact. When I took my dog outside, our eyes would meet, affording her a chance to escape unseen before we exited the house. She had big blue eyes, light gray fur, and a graceful saunter. “Mama Cat” had a hard life, but our relationship was built on love, trust, and respect. She didn’t bat an eye when I provided water and food for her little ones, knowing I meant no harm. I helped her raise more than three litters. When she was in trouble, I rushed to her aide. “Mama Cat” was always granted a head start as I chased away the “bad guys.”

“Mama Cat” lived for several years, and disappeared quietly when it was her time. I mourn her loss every day. Reality causes liquid trails, trickling down my face when I remember that she is no longer basking on the neighbor’s concrete steps. She made an impact in my life and I miss her terribly. There is no doubt that she was an emotional support animal. I will always remember “Mama Cat.”

—SJB

In society today, many people have phones smarter than they are. Most of them have cameras. It is easy to get carried away and photograph everything in our lives-even what we had for dinner. Life happens all around us, yet we are glued to our phones and hardly look up, even to speak with another human being. As we fall farther into this world of endless possibilities and cyber relationships, we want to document everything. I have found that personal relationships lack the most photographs. When I am with friends, I can’t find my phone and don’t look for it. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Our lives flash by in a series of moments. We preserve the memories we hold dear, though time distorts the facts. I believe this must be the reason we create home videos, stage photographs, pose, smile, and “cheese.” When you upload a memory to your mind’s long-term hard drive, will you return to that moment after it is over? Will you remember that moment if you don’t take a picture? Does the person behind the camera save a precious moment, or lose it, as they watch the action from a different angle? Does our urge to snap a photograph prevent our first-hand experience? Watch behind a camera as your child takes their first steps. Do you treasure this moment forever, having caught it on tape, or do you miss it entirely? The videographer captures moments, trying to commemorate an occasion that won’t happen again. They are wasting beautiful pieces of life. Watching is not seeing.

–SJB

Generally, the human population is afraid of the unknown. I am afraid of the unknown. The vast expanse of interstellar space. The sea full of creatures, deep enough to swallow me whole. Seeing is believing. In some cases, I prefer to be in a state of blissful ignorance. I do not want to know the contents of a hot dog. I eat sushi smothered in shrimp sauce in order not to taste the sushi. I prefer my sushi in disguise. I live in fear of losing the ones I love, so I pretend that will not happen. Denial is my friend and my enemy. I will not be prepared. I do not know how to handle that eventuality. Filled with crippling anxiety, I dread the day when reality hits home.

In many cases, people will not believe intangible truths. Reality must be within reason, existing in the parameter of “normal.” It must be heard, tasted, seen. Some people experience mental illness as reality. This is a truth which cannot be completely healed or erased. A large number of people cannot see it, but for many more, this is an invisible wrecking ball. Reality twists words and distorts memories. It is passed down through generations of people who share different ideas of truth. This creates conflict and misunderstanding. Reality cannot exist without listening. Nothing will change if everyone is hiding behind their own ideas and no one has an open mind.

Today, the world exists almost solely online. We are losing our social skills. The outdated forms of communication, such as conversations with our neighbors while walking our dogs, have reached extinction. Conversing with strangers has become “creepy,” and such holiday traditions like “trick-or-treating” have become obsolete. While the world changes and grows, we are expected to follow. Some children today have become so attached to screens that they escape to “virtual reality.” We are close to shutting out reality completely. Look around. Where are the gleeful children running through sprinklers, having tea parties, and climbing trees? They are inside, playing computer games and forgetting how to talk to each other without their faces buried in their phones. Is reality “real” anymore?

–SJB

Note: This illustration is very busy, so if you are viewing this article on your phone, you may not be able to see it clearly. If you want to see it up close, you can visit my website: samanthabuice.com

The blog articles can be found under “The Chronicles of Jane.”

Thank you for reading and have a great weekend!

In some cultures, women are more desirable if they are heavy. This conveys the message that those women have plenty to eat, and must come from money. Some societies revere pale women, wealthy enough to remain inside while others suffer outside, diligently working for their lives. I believe that women strive to please men; we are the peacocks. Observation has afforded me the view of female strategy. Women tend to wear what they perceive to be attractive, preparing for the day with butterflies in their stomachs, hoping to be noticed. Often, it matters not how much time we spend on hair, face, or body; men do not notice. Eventually we become competitive and jealous of the women who do obtain attention. We tear each other apart in our fight to the top, dissecting ourselves and noticing every flaw. At this point, we are no longer peacocks, but hens scrabbling over a rooster. This began long ago and follows us to this day. Obviously, the men are at fault…

There are many ways to send a message.

On March 9^th, 1959, Barbie made her debut. One could buy a Barbie doll for $3, but she cost so much more to the female body image. She was the impossible plastic figure of how a female body “should look.” Barbie set an unattainable goal among little girls and women everywhere. She caused more damage than anyone could fathom. She was a goal, a motivation, an obsession that rubbed on and never rinsed. She was the new ideal. Barbie is a powerful woman.

Tipping the scale, the all-powerful villain in a beloved family film is the depiction of a strong, independent woman with original thoughts. “The Little Mermaid” flooded the theaters with little girls and their parents who finally gave in. On November 13^th, 1989 a fairy tale comes to life as a tiny, beautiful, young mermaid becomes a main character and a damsel in distress. Her prince saves her from the “evil sea witch.” Children are faced with a version of reality where “Ursula” is the “bad guy.” She is a woman in power, so she is depicted in a negative light to make sure the world knows who is in charge. She is defeated and stored in a vault with the other villains to be seen ten years later. Ursula is a powerful woman.

We all have the option of harnessing our inner villains and choosing a path more frequently trod, playing it safe like a mermaid with feet. We can turn our heads when power and “villains” make changes we don’t agree with. We can spend all of our lives striving to fit into a Barbie box. Or we can embrace change and admit that sometimes we are wrong. Powerful women walk this earth: Barbies, Mermaids, and Sea Witches. Together we rule the world.

–SJB

I believe that all dogs are born with gentle personalities. They are trained by people, who shape their view of the world. Dogs are good. They are best friends, companions, family members. Animals have special qualities, certain customs, and keen senses. The relationship between dogs and their humans is remarkable. Dogs have the capacity to love and care for the safety of their “masters,” bridging the gap between animal and domestic partner. Often, dogs are trained to be service dogs and emotional support animals. Some of us need more help than others, and these dogs provide comfort when anxiety attacks.

One evening, my husband and I were sitting on the couch, and I casually mentioned that I wanted a dog. I don’t think he knew I was serious. On July 4^th, 2018, a litter of six puppies was born, one male. When I discovered them at an animal shelter nearby, there were three puppies remaining. In September they were old enough to be adopted. I drove to the shelter every day to visit the puppies, before I could leave with one. I played with them, trying to choose one. Logan chose me. He was shy and sensitive. He clawed at my braid, in sore need of a nail trim. In view of that fact, he reminded me of a superhero who also flew solo until he was ready to join the club. That mutant also had sharp claws. Logan latched onto my shoulder and never let go. He still rides behind my neck when we embark on adventures involving the car. He no longer weighs three pounds.

Logan was trained as an emotional support animal. I taught him to ride in a backpack through the airport so I could fly with him in my lap. Focusing on him helped to distract me and ease my anxiety. He can sense my feelings and is very protective. When he eats dinner, he knows that when he finishes his food, I am supposed to take my medication right after. He bugs me until I remember, as I so often forget. Logan is the first puppy I have ever trained. I have been with him for the entirety of his life. As I cannot have children, Logan behaves like my kid. He is comforting and keeps my mood stable. When he is near, I feel safe. He sits on the arm of the couch and guards the house through the window. He is sitting there right now.

Since Logan is my first puppy, I didn’t know exactly what to feed him or how much. My veterinarian had suggested many different foods and quantities. He was gaining weight. We discovered that this was due to the amount of treats he was given each day. He acquired an injury with his knees, and the doctors said that if he weighed less, he would have less to carry around. So, I began feeding him cucumbers instead. He loves them! If I mention “vegetables,” he hops up and down and twirls in circles. I feel this way about coffee. We have a system that works best for us, and we keep balance. We are synced.

–SJB

“There’s no such thing as Normal. There’s no such thing as Crazy. We’re all a little in-between, and the line is very hazy.” –SJB

Since the beginning of my bout with mental illness, I have bristled around the word “crazy.” I avert my eyes when films include false renditions of electro convulsive therapy. I have been subject to that harsh reality. My mind has been fried several times. I have awoken with a headache so painful it feels as if I have undergone brain surgery. When we watch scary movies, I am physically sick when I witness torture in this form. I look away, and ask my husband when it’s safe to face the box again. For years I have witnessed “crazy” people in the negative light: the shooter, the unstable, the bad guy. Today I decided to own one of the most popular, misunderstood words I hear all the time. “Crazy.” I can be crazy and wear it proudly; a fearless uniform for a larger game at play. It is not a label, but a word used by people who fear the unknown; minds closed to invisible reality. “Crazy” people wield the power to educate the ignorant.

I am in control, though in a movie I would be sent to an asylum due to my voices and delusions. So? I’m “crazy?” There was a phrase used when I was younger that I won’t forget. “I know you are, but what am I?” Everyone, whether they like it or not, has a little crazy in their bones. “Crazy” is just a word. It is used as an adjective, an insult, and part of an outdated statement; used as frequently and carelessly as any. Hold your head high, because when you are called crazy, you are not the ignorant. You deal the cards.

–SJB