Author: Samantha Jane Buice

When I was first introduced to bipolar I disorder, I scoured book stores and picked apart the internet for information concerning this topic. I wanted to know everything so that I could help myself and others. One of the most helpful resources I discovered was the “Bipolar Disorder for Dummies” guide. Those books contain a wealth of information on every topic imaginable. Over the course of several years, I learned about and experienced bipolar I disorder. I have made it my mission to learn everything possible so that I can provide useful knowledge to those most in need. Also, I love to learn. These are a few pointers I have picked up along my mental health journey:

*Weighted blankets (gravity blankets) are a tremendous aid for subduing anxiety.

*Run cold water over your hands/body. I have found that natural resources provide healing properties. My anxiety melts away in a cold shower or when I run my hands under the cold stream from a faucet. The best medicine I have experienced by far is total submersion in a frigid white water river.

*Surround yourself with familiar people and tell your story as often as needed to help heal trauma. Many people have heard my stories several times.

*Keep a journal and track your moods, thoughts, feelings.

*Find a comfortable place to feel at peace. Spend time alone to become familiar with yourself (but not too much time alone, which can lead to low mood and/or paranoid delusions, in my case).

*Laughter is the best medicine. Watch a funny show; spend time with friends; read a funny book. I recommend “Hyperbole and a Half,” and “Solutions and other Problems.” by Allie Brosh.

*Exercise increases serotonin and gives you a happy feeling you can find no other way. It helps secure a deep sleep later. I walk my dog in the morning, and hike with my dad once a week. I also hit the gym to release toxins and keep my body and mind fortified.

*Gardening is an excellent reason to get dirty on purpose, to become more intimate with the earth and your own peace of mind, while also soaking in refreshing Vitamin D. Wear sun screen!

*Track your water and food intake. Keep a food log (not to lose weight; feed your body the healthy fuel it needs). In order to stay hydrated and regular, a person must drink half their body weight in fluid ounces each day. I weigh a little over 130 pounds, so I am supposed to drink at least 65 fluid ounces each day. I admit that I often do not reach my target. I track both of these on my watch, because I have trouble remembering. It doesn’t have to be an expensive watch. There are many which serve the same purpose. I prefer to keep it simple.

*Talk therapists (counselors) provide someone to listen and keep conversations confidential.

*Psychiatrists (in some cases) prescribe medication. I recommend following that regimen because I have fallen subject to the consequences of abstaining and sorely regretting it. However; that is not the only route and every body has its own system. In case you are prescribed medication, take your meds! Also, taking them with food helps your body absorb them.

*Accept the support of family, friends, and loved ones (sadly, not available to all).

*Emotional support animals if necessary/affordable (I have a small dog) are comforting.

*Sleep! I have a lot of trouble with this one. It is important to maintain a regular sleep cycle. Routine is key in that area. My body needs 9 hours of rest. I have to get to bed early so that I can fit all of those hours into my schedule.

*Meditation and focusing breath can relax and ground a person. It can help with anxiety, irritability and frustration.

–SJB

*I am not a licensed professional. I cannot diagnose, or prescribe medication.

These are my personal helpful suggestions.

March 2013

I sit alone with my back to the wall, in a corner made comfortable by my frequent occupancy. Hiding from the other patients in a necessary attempt to acquire time for myself, I have donned my favorite hooded sweatshirt; I wear it every day and feel safe within its confines. They took away my sandals due to their buckles. I now wear soft, lightly treaded slippers in a shade of magenta. Little did I know I would be wearing the nasty things for the next six months. A sketch book lies in my lap, so close to my heart it may as well be glued to the spot. Colored pencils are near. I raise my hood and begin my day, blocking out the world to sink into my own mind, wishing never to return to this living hell.

***

I had a beautiful childhood, but toward adolescence I was an angry, sad twelve year old; I experienced depression at an early age. I hid that part of myself craftily. I had perfect grades, friends, extracurriculars; yet, smiling was difficult and noticeably rare. I loved to run, to escape, to experience freedom. I read many books, played outside, and my sketchbook was always close. My dad taught me how to draw. I fell in love with art. When I was in the fourth grade, I anxiously awaited Thursday afternoons; I joined other young artists for lessons in a quaint loft above a frame shop. I smiled. Art became my outlet.

When I was fifteen, I experienced my first bout with mania. I painted and sketched and wrote such wonderful pieces of art. My mess created masterpieces. Through the chaos, my skills expanded and art became therapy.

In high school, I honed my artistic roots and attended a performing arts school in Savannah, Georgia. Four years of visual arts training taught me that there is always room for improvement, and sometimes when you think you are finished, you have just begun.

After five years of college, I graduated with a bachelor degree in Fine Art. I was immersed and well-rounded when I finally surfaced. I worked in a grocery store; I was a professional babysitter and nanny; I was an assistant teacher; I worked with handicapped children.

Under pressure, without the right combination of medications, and an absent psychiatrist, I cracked and continued to break.

***

March 2013

The security guard confiscated my colored pencils. Too sharp. How upsetting to lose partial freedom. They believed I was “a danger to myself or others.” I was given a coloring book and crayons, as if that were a fair trade. I am not one to follow trends or benefit from the work of another. Why color something I did not create? It feels like renting a house: pouring money down the drain to stay afloat when you could have been paying a mortgage and working toward owning a place of your choosing. I am irritable today. Sometimes I blackout. I say things, then snap out of a daze; I do not remember what happened or the offensive way I treated someone without conscious knowledge. Today was a bad day. I blacked out and angered a huge male patient, emerging from my haze and into danger. He attempted to hurt me; he punched a hole in the wall. He created a hole in my corner, just as I exited that scene. I was whisked away. I have lost my safe space.

***

Dating back to my childhood, I have created safe, comfortable spaces for myself. My mom calls them “nests.” I built them in the exposed roots of massive trees, curled up in blankets on the windowsill behind the couch, in a handmade tent, in my own room. When my nest is challenged or destroyed, I feel as exposed as those roots. I have always found a haven in which to shut out the world and spend hours alone, thinking. The day aforementioned, I lost my corner. Weeks later, I also lost my hooded sweatshirt. I was naked without it. Now, there was nowhere to hide.

***

March 2013

My head is pounding. Where am I? Did I just undergo brain surgery? No, my brain was electrocuted a couple hours ago. A last resort to raise me from the dead. I guess this is what some call the “after burn.” It aches. I’m exhausted.

Where am I? Do I have to eat that? No, I do not want to take those meds. You are trying to poison me (delusion). This is a nightmare.

Search high and low for the sweatshirt you misplaced in the laundry! Give me a sketchbook! Include the colored pencils!

***

When I first began my relationship with the realm of art, I realized how frustrating it could be when the images in my head did not transfer to the canvas. Years of experience taught me that practice does not make perfect. The greatest lesson is this: never will your work be finished, just as you will never stop growing and changing. My story begins here, but my journey continues.

***

–SJB

Vampires are among the most misunderstood mythical creatures. Maybe they are pale, attractive, with dark bruises under their eyes. Perhaps they are monsters in the dark, resting during the day and hunting in the evenings. They are believed to feast on human blood. Some say they will dissolve like a wicked witch under a bucket of Holy water, or disintegrate when they step into the light of day. Others believe they will twinkle in the sunshine. Popular delusions insist that The Reaper visits them with wooden stakes to the heart, exorcisms, death by nemesis. Rumor reveals that they are allergic to garlic. Presumably, these beings cannot enter your home without your invitation. Though vampires are fictional, their details are ambiguous.

There are also common misconceptions about mental illness. Psychiatric illnesses do not yield tangible evidence. This causes many to disbelieve. It creates a realm for guessing and closed minds. We think nothing can touch us until it slaps us in the face. Some think that mood swings equal bipolar disorder; depression is comprised of brief feelings of despair. Anxiety cripples us all, no matter how far we will go to play the part of “normal.” Vampires may not exist, but the whole truths of mental illness elude us like shadows as we stumble in the dark.

The media paints with thick oil. The layers of truth lie so far beneath the surface, and the canvas is still wet. “Ignorance is bliss” covers the top coat. Many are afraid of the unknown. We want to escape our fears with a brush, wash our hands and walk away empty. The media suffocates the truth and replaces it with rumors and judgement. Without key ingredients, they force feed the stigma.

We are all surrounded by adversity too heavy to carry alone. Sharing this burden lightens our load. Everyone needs a shoulder, whether or not you have a psychiatric disorder, you are a family member, or a friend. Instead of viewing people as cases, we must open our eyes and see neighbors.

When we can see, believe, and certainly know, there is no room for “probably,” or “maybe.” We have bested the unknown. We have outrun the real monsters.

–SJB

“It’s Gonna Be Me”

I tend to repeat myself. Sometimes a thought crosses my mind, and I instantly seek writing utensils. Most of these thoughts spill off the pages. They roll off my tongue before I can catch them. The people in my life are quite patient. My tendency to speak incessantly and loudly is a result of a shallow short-term memory, caused by years on antipsychotics. When I reach for a pen to jot a note, many times I read the words I meant to cover for the first time. I forget, so I repeat. This is one of my favorite stories, which I am certain you may have already heard. Documenting my life through my words helps me to remember. The act is therapeutic.

Not every man has a heart big enough to agree upon an N*SYNC “first dance” song. It is the truest example of love.

When I was younger, N*SYNC was my favorite boy band (it still is).

My favorite song is track six, This I Promise You, on their “No Strings Attached” album. This particular quote is still fresh in my memory:

“The one you should call was standing here all along.”

In the fifth grade, I was a little boy crazy. I kept a journal, and there were several crushes bound to the spine. This lyric was super-glued in my mind as I searched for the boy who had been “standing there all along.” Most nights, I cried myself to sleep waiting for him. I attribute some of these feelings to the early onset of my depression, mixed with “normal” adolescent angst.

Many years later, in 2016, I met a man who rocked my world. He didn’t know that. Often, I visited him at work. I brought him coffee and created reasons to see him. I flirted; I laughed. He is a highly intelligent person with a marvelous sense of humor, but in the art of romance, I had to make the first moves or they wouldn’t happen.

After many months of friendship and a budding relationship, I realized that I was “standing there all along.”

So, we danced.

–SJB

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

-Preamble to the Declaration of Independence

I do not frequently voice my opinion on politics, but certain issues crawl under my skin. Men are created equal, but women are of no consequence? Are we expected to fill our bellies with children, birthing more men to “run the world?” For centuries, women have ruled in the background, receiving little credit for their efforts. Men are stronger? Perhaps the male seahorse can attest to this, as he carries offspring, but it seems to me that it requires the greatest strength to labor, after months of agony.

In the earliest existence of humanity, men were the hunters and women were gatherers. This is true of many other creatures. Due to this arrangement, women became useful for cooking, cleaning, and bearing infants. Gradually, kitchens appeared and women disappeared inside them.

Life is full of frustration. Women should not be expected to work for “free.” Dirty diapers, muddy feet, sticky fingers. When does a mother receive her pay check?

Years creep slowly for women’s rights. Those freedoms can be yanked away at any moment. We have come a long way, but we are still climbing.

Many women battling severe mental illness, myself included, are not built to carry children. Carrying a child can have drastic and sometimes fatal consequences for those who try, and for those who are forced. Some women are content spending their mornings in quiet reflection, coffee in hand. Babies that never stop screaming affect a woman’s most valuable slumber. When a gallon-sized surprise falls in her lap while she is consuming psychiatric medications, that baby may never stop crying.

We have survived the kitchen. Some have managed to remain childless. Some have escaped the broom. We are not all cooks, moms, housekeepers. Women may not be declared equal on paper, but without us, men are lost.

–SJB

There is peace beyond the storm. It hides, and waits. Exiting a tornado of emotions, it is easy to feel alone. Time heals the wounds, but never erases them. Take comfort in the reality that you are never truly alone. You are your own best friend, but sometimes, revealing your heart to others can be rewarding. Good things come to those who wait.

Facing the terror that rises in your throat, survey your surroundings. Where are you? Finding yourself can be a daunting task. Discovering that you are not struggling alone will force the peace out of hiding. It is comforting to find a group of people who share your difficulties. In my experience, those are the best friends I have ever known.

Committed to a psychiatric hospital was a living nightmare, but healing together under the same roof brought people who “got” me. They understood. We had the same dreams, the same delusions. We couldn’t sleep. We touched each other’s lives in ways no one else ever could. These relationships were short, in the span of “regular” time, but these people will live on in my soul for the rest of my life.

We didn’t have to keep secrets or pretend to be “normal.” We could be vulnerable together. Though we were in a prison, in that aspect, we were free.

A woman I called “Cinderella” leapt from a moving car. We enjoyed breaking out the crayons and coloring together every day. Our conversations were precious.

I ate lunch with a supervisor every day, because I misbehaved in the cafeteria. We became good friends.

A boy I called “Robin,” deduced that we shared pieces of schizophrenia, before anyone else figured that out.

A man called himself “Prince Jesus.” He was a great friend. I told him that if he would stop telling everyone he believed he was Jesus, they would let him out. It’s never that easy.

When I was released from the hospital, I joined a clubhouse where I was surrounded by people with similar traits. We had free lunch, assigned chores, and drank a lot of sweet tea. Many friendships blossomed there. I met my best friend, E.G. We always shared the “secretary chore,” and prayed together in-between calls, notes and other activities. He became a member of my church!

When the tides pulled me under, these people dragged me out and brought me back to myself. I will be ever grateful to them and cherish the friendships I shared with all. Good things come to those who wait, and though I waited many days alone in a hospital, I spent more days in the company of amazing people I will never forget.

–SJB

On this day, if we are so fortunate, we celebrate the other person who gave us life, and those who stuck around to see what happened next. We celebrate the fathers who adopted us, cared for us, and raised us. “Dads” put in the work, shape us, love us. We squeeze them tight and hold them so close we almost love them to death.

We celebrate the “pawthers” who share the love and support of our four-legged children. Logan is our furry little kid. This is year five for us.

–SJB

I have deduced that every emotional support animal needs an emotional support person.

When I was eighteen, my great grandmother went into assisted living. She had a chihuahua named Charlie. She could not take him with her, so she held interviews. No one was worthy. “Meme” called my mom. She explained the situation. Mom told her that if no one claimed him, he could come and live with us. Tears streaming down her face, she agreed. We flew Charlie home from Louisiana to Georgia.

Chihuahuas are “one man” dogs. They choose one person and love that person with all their heart, hating everyone else. We never knew how old he was, but he was feisty! I desperately wanted to be Charlie’s person. He slept with me; I fed him from my hand; it was obvious to him exactly how much I cared. Inevitably, I was Charlie’s “one woman.”

Charlie and I developed a strong bond. When I left for college, he had to stay home. Reappearing after a good bit of time, he behaved as if I had died and come back to him. He was very protective. Charlie made it clear when he did not approve of a boyfriend. He had a least favorite. Once, he peed in his shoe. Another incident occurred when I went for a walk with this boyfriend. We had barely made it across the street when Charlie ran straight through the invisible fence-despite the shock collar-and caught up to us. Needless to say, that walk was over.

In 2013, I was committed to a hospital in Savannah. My absence worried Charlie. I was gone longer than usual. He started to die. A therapist inside the hospital instructed me to sit down and take a Klonopin. With a foreboding tone, she said, “I need to talk to you about Charlie.” Immediately, despite the drugs, I stood; I screamed. I think my heart may have stopped. She told me that Charlie was very sick, and needed a blood transfusion. He had a 3% chance of survival. Then she said that they were going to do something the hospital had never done before.

One of my best friends in that hospital called himself “Prince Jesus.” He formed a circle in the courtyard and we began to pray for Serenity. We prayed for Charlie. We prayed for me.

The therapist opened the back gate to the courtyard and my mom and sister stepped in, carrying a sickly thin Charlie. I gathered him in my arms, wrapped him in my sweatshirt, and held him in my favorite spot, under pink flowers. I cried; I prayed; and he could see that I was alive. We brought hope to each other. Charlie survived the transfusion and lived for three more years! We spent them together.

Toward the end of Charlie’s life, he developed blindness. He could not see Rush, my friend at the time, but he led me to his gallery every day. Charlie knew I was in good hands before he joined the angels. Rush became my boyfriend, and then my husband.

Though Charlie was not a trained emotional support dog, that is what he was for me. I believe I was his emotional support person. We were a team. I am a bit jealous that he is sitting on “Meme’s” lap, while he waits for me.

–SJB

Some people think their dad is the best. They are foolishly mistaken. My dad is the best dad who ever walked this earth. You know those bumper stickers that boast of honor students, their parents proud beyond belief? I am a grateful daughter and wish the world to know this fact, despite the lack of a similar bumper sticker.

My dad was a father first, and a Father second; he is an Episcopal priest. Juggling a family and seminary in Virginia was no cake walk, I’m sure, but my mom and dad thrived. Dad had a good head on his shoulders, and often, a two-year-old. I used to ride to daycare via that mode of transportation. He picked me up at lunch time and we ate in the seminary cafeteria. I remember that he allowed me to drink orange soda, but to keep it a secret from Mom. She kept me from sugar, and now I thank her.

My father is one of the kindest people in my life, and humble beyond belief.

A few examples include:

When we lived in Savannah, there was a homeless community living under a bridge. Dad discovered these individuals, and regularly brought them necessities. A few times, we all grilled ribs and cooked out together.

One unbearably hot summer day, Dad and I were in the Jeep with a large package of bottled water. Without hesitation, at a stop light, Dad passed the water out to some construction workers in the heat.

My father has an enormous heart. Once, I witnessed a memorable phone conversation. Dad had a single question to ask, so he called a certain company to solve his problem. The associate kept him on the phone for more than a few minutes, without addressing the issue. So many of us would have hung up, but Dad was patient and valued that man’s time as much as his own.

My dad is an excellent listener. He is a great source of comfort for many people, and has a peaceful presence. Our family has a special bond I have not seen elsewhere. My three sisters and I grew up in a house with two parents. We solved problems with words, not violence or passive aggressive behavior. My dad taught me how to love, how to draw, how to ride a bike…how to be myself without holding back. Today, and every day, I thank God for giving me an exceptional father and a lifelong friend.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

–Samantha