Author: Samantha Jane Buice

I apologize if you receive this article twice.

You may be wondering how Berman got his name. When I was little, my dad told stories to me and my little sisters about Sarah, Josh, and Berman. Berman was the “bad guy,” so Sarah and Josh were always on the run trying not to fall for his tricks or trip into one of his traps. Dad told us many stories. We used to beg him to tell us the last Berman story, but always he said, “Not yet.” Berman’s stories were so inspiring, and I asked Dad if Berman could serve another purpose. He gave me permission, and then my mental illness had a name. I picked up the story where he left off, because I realize now that there will never be a last Berman story. I was afraid, angry, and frustrated with Berman until he became a friend. Who could stay mad at that face?

-SJB

I often speak the truth that no one is truly alone. There is support and community if you know how to find it, and several others who share similar stories. I am lucky to have such loving family and friends to see me through the good times and the bad. However; they cannot understand fully what I am dealing with in my head, because they have not experienced my trauma first-hand. Often, I feel alone. I want to tell you a story about a place I used to go, where I felt safe and loved among friends who were struggling to control their lives and rebuild their social skills.

When I finally got out of the hospital, having lost the 25^th year of my life to psychosis, I attended many group therapy sessions, but that wasn’t enough to get me back into the swing of things. I then discovered a clubhouse filled with people like me: people who knew what was going on in my head because they were experiencing several of the same delusions, thoughts, voices, side-effects, and stories I needed to hear. I felt accepted for who I am, happy, and surrounded by others who “got” me. I have never found such communion anywhere else.

I met people from all walks of life. There was free lunch and we all had chores to accomplish by the end of the day to keep the clubhouse clean. My best friend, Eric, and I liked to work together to knock out the dishwashing after lunch. We really enjoyed the secretary position. We called all members who hadn’t visited in a while and checked on them to see how they were doing. Sometimes the problems could be fixed. Transportation was the biggest issue. Not even the bus was free.

My dad is an Episcopal priest, and during those hard times, I frequently used my prayer book. Eric and I would pray together when we had the “secretary” chore and weren’t busy. Eric got so involved that he became an Episcopalian!

I would like to say that I don’t feel lonely, but where I live, there isn’t anything like the support provided to me by that clubhouse. I miss it dearly. I especially miss Eric and all of the amazing people with whom we congregated. I can spout the words that you are not truly alone. That is the truth. Another truth is that it is harder to handle issues like these without the support of others who really do understand. They are rays of sunshine on any cloudy day.

Eric, if you are reading this, I want you to know how much your friendship changed my life. Thank you.

—SJB

In my childhood, I was quiet, shy, and observant; I was a wall flower swaying in the wind. I was an angry child when something or someone got in my way. I was a weepy twelve-year-old, as I was experiencing the early signs of Depression, without knowing his name.

When I was sixteen years old, my life was forever changed. I was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder, and was so relieved that this illness had a name and a treatment plan. To this day, it is still the greatest sense of relief I have ever experienced.

If you have been reading my blog entries and or my books, you know this story. If you haven’t, feel free to catch up. In my life, I repeat stories so often because I cannot remember who I told what and when. So I tell recycled tales. I don’t want to tell that story today.

I want the world to know that I am no longer hiding and it has been a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. I was expecting to feel vulnerable and fragile. I realized that owning my truth–no matter who knows about it, who praises me, or who thinks I am crazy–has brought me to a place of strength and opened my mouth to spout the words too many people are afraid to confront. Yes, I have mood swings. Yes, sometimes I see things and hear things others don’t. Yes, I have delusions.

Ask me anything and I will speak to you about the topics that make society feel uncomfortable. I welcome discomfort, because it leads others away from the stigma and shows the outside world that mental illness is real and needs to be discussed. I cannot pretend that I know everything about mental illness, but I have experienced crippling trauma and risen from the grave to tell my story to the world.

I have experienced great success if only one person is touched by my words. I am in pursuit of change and am right on its heels.

—SJB

I spent the past week with my husband’s family, who has welcomed me with open arms. I have felt a strong sense of connection with them for several years, and now it’s official. I have acquired the big brother I have always wanted, a fourth sister, three nieces and a nephew. I also have the most wonderful mother and father in-law. My new family has always included me in fun activities and I have bonded with the kids. I could not be happier to be part of such an amazing family.

I found happiness I thought I had lost.

When I was sixteen and dealing with the first symptoms of my illness, my brain stunted my growth. I was a playful and imaginative little girl stuck in limbo. I reverted to a time when I felt safe, and surrounded myself with material possessions in pursuit of protection and comfort. I broadened my stuffed animal collection, and built an 18-inch doll army to conquer my fear and confusion. That army expanded to include eighteen 18-inch dolls, clothes, furniture, and accessories. When I was younger, my sisters and I collected these dolls and received one every Christmas. My collection started with four dolls. The scenarios my sisters and I played out brought fun and excitement to my life, and this was where I found solace. In an attempt to shelter me from the pain and suffering I was experiencing because of my illness, my brain retrieved those memories and covered me with that happiness, causing my collection to grow, though I had no one to play with anymore.

Until now.

I now have three nieces who love to play dolls with me. The youngest enjoys it the most, and takes pride in caring for her dolls. The middle child loves to work with their hair. The oldest plays with us because it is so much fun she cannot miss it. I have not felt this happy in a long time. Upon arriving home after this vacation, the youngest of the girls touched my heart. She drew a picture of me, her “Aunt Sam,” and my dog, Logan. She wrote about how much fun she had playing dolls with me. I think I enjoyed it more than any of them. I am grateful for their boisterous laughter and active imaginations. I returned to a time when I was happiest, and those girls bestowed that happiness upon me. I am so excited to be “Aunt Sam.”

—SJB

My books are my children. They are my legacy. I am truly and completely aware that I have found my calling and have a purpose in this life. It is of utmost importance that I create change, open minds, and aid in the healing of those suffering by my side. Life is not easy for anyone. There are hard times that yield happy endings. There are good times that fade. There is hope in the hearts of many, which may be dashed by dire circumstances, or live on to pay forward words of encouragement and light to follow. For the first time, I feel that my books are making a difference in the lives of others, which has been my goal from the start. My husband owns an art gallery and sells my work there. I said to him that it would be the highest honor if someone were to steal a book. I don’t encourage that, but my books are meant to help, not to fill my pockets with gold. If you wonder why my books are so expensive, or where the money goes, I am happy to tell you that your money funds the reprints of each of my books, making it possible for more people to discover them and to spread my message all over the world. Your money also helps in the production of my third book, which is under construction. You are vital supporters of this movement, and I am so very grateful!

—SJB

My book launch was an enormous success! Several people have approached me with apologies for missing out during the hours of the book launch, but I want you all to know that books are still available in Soque Artworks on the square in Clarkesville, GA. I will also be setting up book signings in the near future on Saturdays at that location. I will advertise these dates and times so that people who missed out on the book launch can still purchase signed copies.

If you don’t want to wait for a signed copy, you may purchase a book at any time on my website: samanthabuice.com (here). You can preview the books on my “Books” page before purchase. If you buy a book online and want it signed, email me and I will make that happen.

I urge you to subscribe to my blog: The Chronicles of Jane. I publish an article every week and if you subscribe, the article will be emailed to you.

I want to thank all of the people who attended my book launch for their support of my journey, and the journey of countless others facing challenges like these. Hard covers are selling fast and there are only a handful left. If you want one, hurry over to the art gallery!

Thank you all for reading my words. I have always wanted to be an author and illustrator. On career day in elementary school, I didn’t know how to dress up like an author and illustrator. I wore a dress and carried a bag with a notebook, book and pencils inside. I even wore shoes. Oh, how wrong I was about attire! I wear my pajamas to work. Not everyone grows up to build a career out of their childhood dreams. I never knew I could really make that happen. My life has taken many twists and turns which brought me here. I feel cursed with a blessing. This is my purpose, without a doubt. I have said this before, but it’s worth repeating: in the eighth grade, when asked what I wished for my future, I replied, “I want to write something people want to read.” I can only hope I have succeeded and that my words and artwork will continue to further my efforts toward positive change.

—SJB

I have an excellent long term memory. When I was almost two years old my dad heard God’s call. We departed from Georgia and made our way to Virginia Theological Seminary. We lived in Alexandria where my first little sister, Jessica, was born in December of 1989. My parents had their work cut out for them. As my father obeyed his call to the church, my mom worked as a nurse and as a mom to keep us afloat. I remember riding on my dad’s shoulders as we walked the path toward my day care center, which was on his way to class. He would pick me up from day care at lunch time, and we ate in the cafeteria at the seminary. Dad said I could drink whatever I wanted from the fountain, and I always chose orange soda. Life is in the details.

Most of the time, when a priest graduates from seminary, he or she takes up a position as an assistant rector before they have their own church. When Dad graduated and first began his career as a priest, he skipped the assistant bit and took on two churches at the same time. We lived in Calhoun, Georgia in a little yellow house with our church nearby, and Dad also commuted to his church in Jasper, Georgia. How did my parents find time to sleep? I have no idea.

My sisters, Kimberly and Amy were born in September of 1993. We needed a bigger house, and we found the coolest house in Calhoun, with a wrap around porch, two bedrooms and a loft, a huge back yard; and it was close enough to our church so Dad wouldn’t have quite a long drive to work. We were happy there. Then, we moved, as preacher’s must. One of the hardest parts about being a preacher’s kid is keeping the secret that you are moving, before the church is informed. It was the duty my sisters and I had to uphold. Even at a young age, I understood this. It was still hard. We moved to Toccoa, Georgia, where we stayed for eight years at St. Matthias. This was my childhood.

We moved again after that. We went south to Savannah, Georgia. We spent thirteen years there. Dad had by then matured as a priest and gave killer sermons, helped people in need, stayed by sick beds, prayed with the dying and those who loved them, read rites, baptized babies, married couples, and led youth groups, as well as many outreach programs.

When Dad was called to Grace Calvary in Clarkesville, Georgia, he felt he was “coming home.”

Now, after a marriage that has lasted almost forty years, four daughters, several furry grandchildren and a career that has consumed him for most of his life, Dad is retiring in two days. People love “Father Sam.” I love my dad. While others are suffering the loss of a great priest, I celebrate the next chapter of my dad’s life and all the joy it will bring. I will miss sitting on the front row with my mom and sisters. I will cherish the memories of reading books and coloring during church before I learned to pay attention, and laying my head in my mom’s lap when I got bored or too sleepy. I will miss his voice during the celebration and communion on Sundays, as I have attended church for thirty years. Time passes so quickly and it’s hard to keep up. Where does it go? The days are shorter when you grow older, so we must cherish every moment spent together.My dad is my light in the darkness. He gives me hope for a brighter future. I will always be a preacher’s kid, and proud to call “Father Sam” my dad.

—SJB