Samantha Jane Buice

I have few friends, because I am picky. I know when I encounter a good one, and never let her go. But not in a creepy way.

Diana and her husband, Lee have been my best friends for many years. We met through work. They are good at keeping secrets, as best friends are expected to do, but they are so much more to me than best friends. They visited me often while I was in the psychiatric hospital in Savannah, GA. They did not think I was crazy. They were very supportive. They kept my whereabouts a secret because I wanted to keep that part of my life hidden from the public. I didn’t want anyone to know where I was, as I was embarrassed about my illness at the time.

I am “Aunt Sam” to their two sweet, highly intelligent, beautiful girls, and I have always felt like part of their family. I love the two of them and their daughters with my whole heart.

This is a silly exercise, but Diana would call it magical, because she’s cool like that. I will imagine the day I met my best friends’ from their point of view. These are friends who have never turned me away and have loved me as I love them. I will try to predict the inner workings of those minds when we first encountered one another.

“Diana meets Sam”

“I am a music teacher, and was teaching my 3rd grade special needs class. The kids are always accompanied by a paraprofessional. Miss Buice (Sam) was the paraprofessional in that classroom. One day, Sam came up to me after class and-very much like a kindergarten student-asked if we could be friends. “You are so fun!” she said. “Will you be my friend?” I said, “Totally!” and we exchanged phone numbers. I was new at this school and didn’t really have any friends, so I was happily surprised. After that, we spent a lot of time together, never running out of things to talk about. She has been in our lives far longer than we have had children. We take turns venting and listening, much like free therapists. Every Thursday was “Pool Night,” and Sam accompanied me while my husband, Lee played pool with his team. We both feel comfortable sharing things between us that we could tell no one else. She loves our kids as if they were her own.”

“LOGAN meets Juniper/Emily meets Sam”

My dog, LOGAN, has an Aunt Emily, and a sister named Juniper. This is how we met, maybe accurately, from Emily’s account:

“I am a waitress in a restaurant low on staff. I have a hard time saying “No” when asked for help. I am always cheerful and everyone would describe me as a really sweet person. I am worked until I almost drop from fatigue. I am always following orders, taking orders, checking people in, and wearing a smile, as I dream about getting off work and returning to my couch, finally resting my legs. I have a new puppy, and cannot tell you how much I am about to explode with desperation and excitement to see her greet me when I get home. Her name is Juniper, but we call her Juni. She is so sweet and tiny. We rescued her out of a litter of puppies in a shelter near Helen, GA. We went out of our way a bit, out of county to pick her up. When we adopted her, there were two remaining puppies from a six puppy litter. There was only one boy. One day, a regular came into the restaurant for a take-out order, and a woman was with him, carrying a puppy which looked very similar to my own! We introduced ourselves, and I showed her a picture of Juniper. The likeness was undeniable. I asked her where she found him, and we had adopted both puppies from the same litter! She introduced me to LOGAN and we talked about setting up a playdate. That is how I met Juni’s “S-A-M,” and LOGAN met his “Aunt Emily.” Sam and I have been friends ever since, and the two siblings have a playdate every week”

Courtney meets her cousin, Samantha, not for the first time:

“She stole my toy. She has the advantage. She can crawl and sit up. She is very close to learning how to walk. I better prepare for that. I will hide all of my toys when she comes to visit. When I can sit up and crawl. I am a sitting duck in Superman stance. Will I get my doll back? Probably not. By the time the grown-ups realize what has happened, they will assume the doll is Samantha’s. Then she will take it home and I won’t ever see it again. I loved that doll. Samantha is growing quickly into a bully. I love her anyway.”

I have a few more friends, but mostly they are my sisters, and I talk about them all the time. I wonder how my friends’ accounts would differ from my own. Just for fun.

—SJB

There are several avenues of media–including news articles, films, books, and other forms of communication–with more questions than answers. This is why the media should either keep their heads buried in the sand when it pertains to unknowns, or change their tunes. Many make assumptions and publicly announce suspicions, fears, and misunderstandings about mental illness throughout their network. They feed the public what they perceive to be “truths,” of which they really have no idea. These suppositions feed the stigma and set us back in our quest toward acceptance, love, and equality. One who has suffered under these circumstances–occupied a tiny room alone for several months–can tell a true story about the injustice of the system. Recovery from all of the trauma I have experienced in the hospital takes time. I will be holding on to that trauma inside my brain for the rest of my life, trying to set it free. That very same brain possesses my depression, anxiety, mania, psychosis (to name a few). “She” is living proof that this illness exists, is treatable, and that “crazy” does not exist. Unfortunately, that proof is intangible. Therefore, according to the notorious “They,” the proof does not exist. To see is to believe. Everyone thinks nothing will touch them. “Not me,” they say. “Never could this trauma attach itself to my life. I am invincible.” Until it does. Then, they become part of the unknown, and will never be “normal” again. Never say Never.

The media labels people with psychiatric disorders. We are bullied, misunderstood, and often the butt of a joke. Misunderstanding stands alone, but add cruelty to the mix. Emerging victoriously from a psychiatric facility should be recognized, a cause of pride and celebration. Sadly, this fact is often buried beneath the rug or six feet under; distanced as quickly as possible. Instead of triumph, your word now means nothing because you were deemed incompetent. Sometimes, when the whispers grow from seeds to weeds, people with mental illness are approached as though their struggles are contagious. Even pity, which is meant to be polite, only feels like distance.

I have read and watched several movies with elements of jest at the expense of the mentally ill. I try to push through; I get mad, then sad, then turn it off. It is a personal challenge to ignore horrible statements such as, “My father married a bipolarity woman who had her ups and downs. When I marry, I will not make that mistake.” Or, “He used to be a genius before he became mentally ill. Isn’t that how it always goes?” It infuriates me to read these words, but I take a break, breathe deeply, and continue, with the knowledge that the author is quite ignorant. If I quit at every insult, I miss out on the good parts. I have decided, despite the irritation, to push through. It certainly has its difficulties.

I imagine that those most afraid of “crazy” people are truly fearful that their own sanity may be called into question. I would venture to say that everyone is playing pretend to protect their own “normality.” Such a state is unobtainable, just as sure as “crazy” is nonexistent.

We ARE desirable and we DO have voices! Let them be heard!!

“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

My family has always been drawn to the earth. We would all rather be outside than in. My sisters and I grew up hiking, camping, swimming in whitewater rivers, kayaking and sitting around campfires sharing secrets and telling stories. Campfires were magical settings which brought us closer together. Each member of our family is tethered to one another. Our lines of communication have always been open and honest. We swept nothing under the rug. Everything was discussed and resolved. Most of the time this happened when we “passed the stick.”

When “passing the stick,” whoever holds the stick has the floor. Only that person can speak about their issues, and once the stick has been passed around in all different directions, the situation is handled and the family meeting is over. Oh, how hard it is to hold your tongue until it is your turn with the stick!

Time flies by. Everyone moves in different directions. If the stick were passed around now, it would take days to catch each other up or to resolve issues, no matter how old. It’s important to check in with each other so that you can grow up together instead of apart. Our parents anchored us so that we would never drift away. Sometimes a campfire is needed to remind us of who we are now, as well as the part we play in our family.

–SJB

“They” say you should write about what you know; the truth is far easier to convey than a fabrication. I follow this logic. However; in my experience, I know that this is not always easy. Sometimes it is more difficult to speak the truth than it is to lie. Generates vulnerability. It feels like exposing your whole self to the public in order to reach your target audience. There is wonderfully crafted fiction, well researched non-fiction, and there are beautiful children’s books in the world. My books don’t fit within those parameters. I write about what I know: I write about my experience, and hope to give others strength with my words.

The truth is that when you grow up with a mental illness like mine, you become “self-focused,” according to my therapist. Not “self-centered,” or “selfish.” I have been so aware of my illness from the beginning, and especially attentive for many years concerning the shifts in my mood. “Am I manic? Do I have endless energy? Am I avoiding sleep, feeling it is a waste of time? Am I losing my appetite? Is my handwriting sloppier than usual? Am I talking more than usual, but mumbling incoherently?” or “Am I down? Am I sad and tearful about everything? Am I anxious for unknown reasons? Do I cry every morning because trees are being cut down and I feel that nature has taken a huge hit from mankind? Do I sleep more? Am I feeling ‘not in the mood’ to get out of bed? Am I disinterested in every routine activity? Does it take a lot of work to speak, or even to smile?”

I have been so hyper aware of my moods and trying to control them that I had energy for almost nothing else. My doctor assured me that I am not a selfish person, but have been self-focused for so many years trying to fix the wiring in my head. Nothing is truly broken, but sometimes, I admit, it is harder than others to keep my head above water. I was diagnosed with Bipolar I at age 16. I did not have a good time in high school, when I wasn’t truly awake and aware of my surroundings. This illness progressed, and I am trying to keep up. Sometimes it feels like treading water, but most times I can reach the shore. I ask myself all the time, “How and why did this happen to me?” Of course, I have no answers. No one does. But I squeeze all the lemons I am given, and play the cards I am dealt. I believe that sharing my story and helping others is my purpose in life. Writing words people want to read and need to hear. Writing what I know.

–SJB

I want to thank all of my readers for your support and interest in my cause. Thank you for tuning in as I release my 100th blog article!

Throughout the one hundred Fridays which led to this day, I have written articles about standing up for what you believe in, being yourself, realizing you are not alone, and defining yourself despite your mental illness. I have told fictional stories, and informed you all about my experience with many areas of mental illness. I have told my story; I have enjoyed sharing it with you. My intent was to instill hope in your life, inspire you, shed light on issues that must be spoken about, and comforted you. Most of all, I hope you feel like part of something big. Perhaps now, you can acknowledge that you are surrounded by others who may share your loneliness. You are not alone. I plan to continue my journey with you. Many stories await.

I wrote a book. I illustrated my illness in what I hope is comforting, helpful, and honest. I unabashedly poured my soul into those pages. I have always been a storyteller, and this is the story of a journey that will never end, and will follow me wherever I go. It is a piece of who I am, like it or not. I don’t like it. I hear voices and have conversations with intruders inside my head. I have delusions and can usually recognize them for what they are-pretend. Every time I take my dog outside, there is a tree that I swear is a man, but it’s just a tree. Every time. Just a tree. I experience mania rarely, I am not often depressed, and live a stable, almost “normal” life in a sleepy little town. I am frequently paranoid, but even so, I know I probably have nothing to fear. If I feel sick or something is physically worrying me, I call my mom. She is a nurse, and I am a hypochondriac. I disturb her slumber in the dead of night in order for her to reassure me that there is nothing wrong. I have stopped this ritual, as for years she has the same response. There is nothing wrong.

I want the world to know that living with a psychiatric illness is not a death sentence. There is no cure, but it is not a cause for embarrassment and doesn’t have to be kept secret. I used to feel like I could pose like a “normal” person and fit into the crowd, hiding my secret and feeling powerful because I knew something others didn’t. I guess it didn’t work, and that’s alright because “different” is far better than “normal.”

Repeatedly, some people living with mental illness feel like victims. When I shared my story publicly, I meant to share the fact that no one is truly alone in their struggles. The message was positive. Not a bit of that story was implying that I am a victim. I am the survivor of a disease which nearly pulled me under. I fought to reach the surface and was successful. This book means that I struggle but there is not a victim inside me. I rose above and will keep rising until I have reached the sun and carried it back to those who need the light.

–SJB

When I was younger (much), I had an issue with the texture and tightness of my clothes. I have heard that I am not the only kid who has experienced this, so I don’t feel weird telling you about it. I wouldn’t feel weird telling you anyway. I never wore tights, unless they were forced upon me. I wore baggy underwear and swimsuits that dragged to the ground. I hated any form of clothing that squeezed me or made me feel constrained. A fabric prison. Elastic was out of the question. I played outside in the mud, ran, and used my imagination–in a dress. I climbed trees in a dress. I wore huge non-elastic sweatpants when I played soccer, the only time I was not wearing a dress. My feet were bare as often as possible. Before I grew breasts, so was my torso. My best friend was a boy, and I remember running around at his house one day without a shirt on. His mom called out to me, “Samantha, would you like to wear a shirt?” to which I answered, “I look the same as him!” I had a beautiful childhood. I ran through the woods in our backyard, skinny dipped in the creek, had mud fights with my sisters and friends. I loved to read, but mostly I loved to “do.” I wrote and illustrated children’s books without planning to publish them. I kept a journal for my second grade class with Mrs. Sanders, and one morning I wrote that “My panties are too tit!” I wasn’t a great speller, and I never truly mastered it. Mrs. Sander’s response was, “Oh my!” I remember that, but I also have proof, because I kept that journal and all those that followed.

My mom always wanted me to wear clean clothes. I don’t think she really cared very much about what I wore, as long as it was clean, and it matched. It never matched, and I tried to pull off wearing the same outfit two or more times consecutively. There is a particular famous green dress. Mention that dress to any, and I mean any member of my immediate and extended family, everyone who watched me grow up, my whole elementary school and several strangers, and they will remember that famous, favorite green dress. I wore it all the time and wouldn’t take it off unless I must. I am not exaggerating. The dress grew with me, and most likely molded itself to my body. I think my mom hid it somewhere, because I haven’t seen it in a long time. It would probably still fit.

Mom was in charge of wardrobe and dealt with all my tantrums about what I wanted to wear. After some deliberation, she passed the job to Dad. Dad’s method was vastly different from Mom’s specifications. I would come out dressed for school, walk over to Dad and hold my arms up. I would spin around with his nose close enough to smell me, and if I passed the “smell test,” I was given permission to wear that outfit.

When I was younger, I was very shy and easily embarrassed. That is why I remember the first time I was mortified. On the very first day that I wore pants to school, Caleb Carter noticed me entering the cafeteria and announced quite loudly that, “SAMANTHA IS WEARING PANTS!” I never traded my corn for his roll at lunch anymore after that. Okay, I did. The pants were denim shorts. I have been wearing denim ever since. Somehow, the “curse” had been broken.

–SJB

My Granmama Patte was one of the best story tellers I have ever known. Her birthday was this week; a fact I had honestly not remembered when I started writing this article about her. She told me all kinds of stories. Some of them were true, but mostly fictional. She helped me to become who I am today. She gave me the strength to be wild, to be a woman who runs with the wolves, and to feel special in my own way. She was one of the most influential people in my life, and a successful, powerful woman.

When I was really little, my Granmama lived in a house with creaks and groans. She had a spiral staircase connecting the upstairs from the bedrooms below. Whenever we visited, I would wake up early before everyone else and climb the rickety steps to my Granmama’s room and crawl into bed with her. I sometimes wonder if she was already awake because she anticipated this as a regular occurrence. She would tell me stories, and we would talk about important things I don’t remember anymore, but I will never forget her voice. A few years before she died, she gave us each a book that contained many of the stories she told us as children. Now, when I choose one of my favorite stories, I ask my Granmama to read me that story. As my eyes keep up with the pace and I concentrate with all my strength, Granmama’s voice shines through, and she reads me that story, as if she is sitting next to me.

I remember the strangest fictional stories she told us, and how the details changed over time. “The Red Shoes” is my favorite. Now that I am a storyteller, I will give my version.

Once Upon a Time…

There was a small girl living in poverty. She roamed the streets with only the handmade rags on her back. She had fashioned her wardrobe all by herself, and was especially proud of her threadbare shoes. She had painted them red, because that was her favorite color, and she felt bold wearing them. Despite the fact that she had nothing and had to pander on the streets for her dinner, she had no wishes. Her life was filled with happiness which lacked the burden of material possessions.

One day, a carriage rode through town, housing a very rich old woman with poor eyesight. She was never able to have children, and her husband had died quite suddenly a few years into their marriage. She wished intensely to have another presence in her house. A “fixer-upper.” When she saw the raggedy little girl, she called out to the coachman, “Stop here!” Exiting the carriage was an ordeal you cannot imagine. All of the bulk and fabric of the old woman’s clothing almost prevented her from taking her leave of the carriage, but she appeared to have found her perfect “project.”

The old woman approached the young girl, and asked if she would like to shower, change clothes, live a life away from the streets. At first, the girl was hesitant. She did not trust many people. But a hot shower sounded like Heaven on earth. She accepted the woman’s offer, essentially signing an invisible contract.

When the girl stepped out of the shower and retrieved a towel, she inquired about her clothes. A servant led her to new bed chambers, which were to be her very own. There was a beautiful dress and fancy gold slippers lying on the bed. The girl asked the servant, “Where are my clothes?” The servant informed her that, “The Mistress told me to dispose of the tattered garments.” The girl was so sad she was irate. Those were her only possessions and she loved those “tattered garments,” especially her red shoes. She would never wear those fancy gold slippers, she did not put on the fancy dress, and she did not join the old woman for dinner. She behaved ungraciously, because the old woman had stolen her prized and only garments. She fashioned a dress out of her bedsheets, and walked barefoot around the house wearing a “toga-like” outfit. The old woman could only see that the girl was wearing white, because of her poor eyesight.

It became clear to the young girl that the old woman was a devout Christian. She went to church on Sundays and Wednesdays, and sometimes on Saturdays. She only roped the girl into going to Sunday Mass. The young girl had only ever worn her homemade clothes and red shoes, and had never gone to church. She refused to wear tight uncomfortable dresses, but the old woman took her shopping for appropriate Sunday attire. The old woman’s eyesight was getting worse. The young girl was sly and used this to her advantage. After a few agonizing hours of dress shopping, they arrived at a shoe store. The old woman told the girl she could choose any pair of shoes in either black or navy blue. The young girl looked around until she found the most beautiful, shiny, glittery red slippers she had ever seen. She fell in love with them. When the store manager saw the young girl’s interest in the shoes, he told her, “These are dancing shoes.” He said it like a warning or a curse of some kind.

When the old woman bought the young girl’s “navy blue” slippers, she put them on immediately and started dancing all the way home. She thought she was dancing, but the man had been correct. The shoes were dancing.

On Sunday, as they dressed for church, the young girl donned the red shoes, never imagining how negatively they would be received. Everyone was gossiping about the girl’s red shoes and how inappropriate they were in church. “How disrespectful!” “What pure negligence!” “How could she let her wear those in this sacred space?” The old woman was very embarrassed. She scolded the young girl, and set the shoes on a top shelf out of reach. Isn’t that what stools are made for?

The following Sunday, the young girl stepped into her red shoes again. The shoe store manager was leaning against a wall outside the church before she entered. He warned her again about the dancing shoes. She ignored his warning and set foot in the church. Suddenly, she was dancing out of the church, headed for the forest. She danced and danced. She danced until she had blisters and her toenails were bruised and falling off. She danced until her ankles broke and her knees gave in. Try as she might, she could not get the shoes to come off. She decided she would rather have no feet. She encountered a huntsman in the forest and begged him to cut off her ankles to take off the shoes. “Are you truly certain?” He asked. “Absolutely!” She said, “The sooner the better!” So, he cut off her ankles and the shoes danced away with her feet inside them. She was grateful that she would never dance again. She was once again, a happy young girl wearing shabby clothes. No material possessions to weigh her down. Her feet had grown back, and she wore homemade, cloth red shoes.

All that trouble for a hot shower.

–SJB

P.S. I inherited some mischievous characteristics from my Granmama. I often wear red shoes to church.

During Vincent’s life, Van Gogh was not a last name. “Van” meant “from,” and “Gogh” was his place of origin. Vincent Van Gogh. When asked which work of art is my very favorite, my answer is Vincent’s “Starry Night.” I have always been drawn to this painting. The movement. The dark, and yet the color. The clear, raw emotion. I know that many people who are unfamiliar with the art world can recognize and refer to this painting because of its fame. It is especially famous because Vincent is no longer with us to explain the real truth of this artwork. Deep down, in the core of my being, I share a connection with Vincent Van Gogh. This bond is on a level many people cannot comprehend. We share a mood disorder. We paint. We feel. We express our emotions through our work.

For many years, I have believed that “Starry Night” is the change from one mood to another, happening before my eyes. The wind is visible. The night is dark. I believe this painting is an expression of moving out of the darkness (if only for a time), to a different state of consciousness. It is a release brought about by creating art. Painting can create inner peace and be a vessel for therapy you cannot find elsewhere.

Recently, I attended a “Van Gogh Emersion Experience.” I learned the deeper reason for my attachment to Vincent and this painting. He painted this scene from the view outside his psychiatric hospital room. I began to cry. I have walked in those shoes. I have slept in that tiny room. I had no view outside my window. For years I have dealt with mental illness and loved this painting with all my heart, unaware of this truth.

There was a scene created within the tour where people could pose in the tiny bedroom. They smiled in their photos, as the tears ran down my face. I had wanted so terribly to escape that tiny bedroom prison, and here people were taking pictures in the tiny room willingly. I began to have a panic attack and my mom lead me quickly to an exit, where I hyperventilated outside. My dad, mom, husband and Klonopin helped me to calm down. Then I ate some tater tots and collected myself well enough to brave the gift shop. There is no room for reason or rationality. These triggers, which caused turmoil within my mind, could not be explained away. The feelings are real.

Sometimes the therapy provided by painting is not readily available. In this case, in order to cope, all I really need are support, Klonopin, and tater tots.

–SJB

I have a task for you. Write a letter to your past self, describing your present life, and how it has differed from your original plan. Fold it, put it in an envelope and seal it. Do not open it, despite temptation.

Repeat this process, but instead, write a letter to your present self. Who are you now? Do you recognize yourself as an individual? Are you proud of yourself? How different is your life since you dreamed of being an astronaut? Are you in a relationship? Do you have kids? How many dogs? Are you currently working? Do you like your job? What would you change? Do you have habits which have gone unnoticed until you write them down? Writing it down can strengthen your awareness of the positive changes you want to add to your life, or habits and actions which should be dissolved. Write about positive choices which lead to success, and mistakes you have made along the way.

Next, write a letter to your future self, predicting your accomplishments, disappointments, and wishes. Once you have written all three letters, wait two weeks before finally opening them and reading the contents. Start with the past and continue. The point of this exercise is to keep track of where you are in life. It is an evaluation about what you will change or add to your life moving forward. Whether you decide to keep them or dispose of them, these letters may be a glimpse of your life’s footprints and which path to follow.

–SJB

P.S. If reincarnation does exist, I totally want wings in the future.

When I was single, I lived in a studio apartment in the shape of a tiny cottage. I had a screen porch and a fenced in yard. The library was within walking distance, and I love to read. I like to check out books from the library because I feel the pressure of finishing them before they expire, and I love the smell of the older ones. I like to turn pages, not swipe on a tablet. I spent so much time alone with my little dog, Charlie, so I had no trouble finishing books on time.

I enjoyed having a part-time job refinishing furniture, lifting it into a truck, and transporting items from one customer to another. It was a challenge, I admit. I don’t work well under authority. But I love to paint, sand, and finish.

I have known myself for a long time, and I very much enjoyed my single life. Then I met a boy. He owns an art gallery, and I visited him every day. We began dating and our relationship led to marriage six years later. After all of those years, I began to be a “couple.” I love my husband and am extremely grateful to have him in my life. I would not have it any other way. We make a wonderful “couple.” Over time, I forgot about my individuality. Who am I? I look into the mirror and talk to myself, and maybe that’s weird but it works for me.

Charlie has been gone for many years. Now we have a small dog named Logan, who follows me wherever I go. I work from home, so he thinks my world revolves around him. It may seem like I have “space” every day, as I work from home, but I just can’t get away from him, no matter how much I love him and appreciate his company. Recently I realized my situation. I have been chipping away parts of myself without noticing. It is no one’s fault but my own. Now that I recognize that, I go for short walks in town and explore places I have or haven’t been by myself. I walk to the library, to visit my husband at work, and wander around without a destination. I drive alone to prove I still can, instead of riding in the passenger seat almost always. I am returning to myself again in small steps. It’s fun! I love being part of a “couple,” but don’t want to be gobbled up to the extent of losing me. I need to take care of myself.

I am giving you homework today. This is an act which can be performed whenever you are alone and feel it is the appropriate time. Look at your face in the mirror, and see who looks back. Without make-up, study the raw, exposed person behind the mask. Look past your face. Look into your eyes. See. Five minutes with only yourself in the mirror. Time it if you must, but don’t hurry. Search your soul. Remember who you are. Not your job, not your spouse, not your kids. Who are you? As an individual. Really search deep within yourself. If you don’t know that answer, or you are confused, make this a routine procedure.

If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me.

–SJB