“Greed, Money, and Power” 02.04.22

Samantha Jane Buice

Why do we need a reminder behind the bus seat to save one for the elderly and disabled? Should we not have these etiquettes ingrained in our minds? Are we so self-absorbed that we forget the feelings of others? Do we see people, or just look at them? I believe that we are here to make change even in small ways. Smile at a stranger. Donate to someone less fortunate than yourself. Look in the mirror and tell yourself you are enough. Money and power are frivolous. Pieces of paper, tiny bits of metal, bricks of gold. Whether it’s money, power, or both, we greedily hold fast to the idea that if we have enough money, we can build a platform toward power, and eventually happiness. Are we happier when we have more money or power over others?

Why do we feel more compassion for the dogs, which keep the homeless warm and protected, other than caring for the struggling people? We imagine that donations will be used to purchase booze or cigarettes, when maybe all we want is a steaming cheeseburger and fries. Many are starving and sleeping on the street, while others spend all day in coffee shops to avoid the cold. There are tent villages under bridges we drive past, ignoring terrible misfortune. Privileges are taken for granted, sometimes mistaken for rights. Some of us walk away without turning to see the people who cannot dream of shopping or spending the day with pockets full of money. Quite often, lack of a home is coupled with undiagnosed mental illness, and without the means to treat or heal trauma. These people deserve our help. They are humans and equal to us all. The system has failed.

We “own” land. We claim property because we can. Many are keeping money they will never live long enough to spend, handing it down for generations, and continuing the cycle of the misuse of money and power. Why do we need it? Why don’t we share it? Where are the Good Samaritans?

—SJB

“Humans” 01.28.22

Samantha Jane Buice

This is a day for pondering. What defines a human? The dictionary gives us no clues, and we are left with our own presumptions. Who is a person? What are we made of? Some would say we are made of 75% water. It cannot be purely physical. Is it the mask we wear in public that defines us; or is our foundation built around the person we become behind the scenes? Are we solely at the mercy of our parents’ example? Do we choose water over blood, or are we so strongly bonded to family that we are connected like roots to the people we were born to live, love, and tolerate?

Are we defined by our minds, our bodies, our spirits? Our actions and our reputations? Do we read nonfiction in order to learn, or are we entertaining ourselves in a form of denial called “fiction.” Do we learn what others force us to know, or do we learn because we are curious? Is it human nature to be curious? There are people who want to drown the world out in order to close the blinds on reality. No matter how dark our curtains can be, there are slivers of light reaching through to gather us and bring us to the sun, guiding us toward truth. What are we hiding from? Are we sexist? Are we racist? Are we judged by the color of our hair or the shade of our skin? I believe that life is better when you face it and stop burying yourself in the ideas of past and future. Some of us lead long healthy lives, while others strive to succeed and fail. All we have is now. This moment is real. This moment will pass. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” We are not invincible, as we hold fast to this idea. We will not live forever. We only have now.

What defines a human? Love? Acts? Flaws? In truth, I do not know. I speculate that the answer is simple, though some people try too hard to understand. I believe that humans have the capacity to love and to forgive. We can learn to break away from hate. We can become whole by helping those less fortunate. Humans have the chance to do what is right, as well as what is wrong. That is our free will. Our words and actions speak volumes about us. We do not all follow the path of light. I believe this makes us human, and it is never too late to change, grow, and prosper.

—SJB

“Derrick Dendy: Reader 01” 01.21.22

Samantha Jane Buice

I am mourning the loss of my friend, Derrick Dendy. Life gave him lemons and he made lemonade until his last day. When we were kids, there was an ongoing reading competition and each week, Derrick read more books and always had more points than I had. Barely. That kid must have done nothing else but read. We both loved it. I always came in second. Before he left his body behind, we had a brief conversation. I asked him how many books he had read that summer, and he had STILL read more books than me. Just one more, not to worry. He knew he was leaving this world, and I said to him that there must be an endless supply of books waiting for him when he arrived. If God knows Derrick Dendy, that library is filled to the brim.

I can imagine Derrick lounging on a couch or in a favorite chair, reading without distraction and surrounded by books. He will forever be number one.

There is no contest.

–SJB

“Lost and Found” 12.31.21

Samantha Jane Buice

My dad used to tell me to “Run like the wind!” He shouted that phrase during cross country races and during soccer games. He has always believed in me. So, I ran like the wind. Everywhere I went. Driving? Walking? No. Shoes or bare feet? Not even questionable. I hate wearing shoes. When I was younger, I climbed trees and ran through the woods pretending to be Pocahontas. A wild child, with a strong spirit and an active imagination.

Losing my capability to run was tragic, but it opened up doors I didn’t know existed. My creative mind took control. I acquired a few trophies for various events throughout my life. I kept only two. The first and last. While I am proud of landing my first-place trophy in a road race (my last race), I hold my very first trophy closer to my heart. When I was in the first grade, I won the first-place Young Georgia Authors Award. This trophy serves as a reminder of my beginning as a writer and illustrator. It expresses that every voice, especially the little ones carry weight.

–SJB

“Happy Holidays” 12.24.21

Samantha Jane Buice

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

“Respirator” 12.17.21

Samantha Jane Buice

In public, at events we are not able to make excuses well enough to skip (and spend much of the time in the bathroom in order to escape the crowd), we are often asked, “What do you do?” Are we defined by our careers or lack thereof? I know from experience how awkward it can be to end up on the downside of this floundering question. When I was unemployed for nightmarish reasons the public couldn’t dream of, I was embarrassed by this inquiry. I found it hard to hide, and even harder to come up with an answer on the spot. I did not realize at the time that I had nothing to be ashamed of. Once upon a time, I asked my dad how I could handle this question. He suggested telling others that I was a “Respirator.” Who would question that response even if they knew what it meant? Dad meant to employ me with a career as a “Breather.”

Breathing is a job in itself. Many people inhale and exhale on autopilot. It doesn’t come so easily for us all. When I forget to breathe during an episode of high stress, a panic attack ensues. Panic attacks are quite frequent in my life. It helps to be a “Respirator.”

–SJB

“Pain” 12.10.21

Samantha Jane Buice

I believe that everyone experiences some sort of pain in their lives. Some people suffer physical trauma, while others struggle on the inside. Often, this pain follows us for the rest of our lives. Sometimes we cannot escape. While I was in the many hospitals I inhabited in 2013, I refused to take my medication. This further encouraged my illness to take over my mind. When I refused the meds, I received painful shots in sensitive areas. Pain memories are a reality in my life. I can feel pain in those sensitive injection sites even today, eight years later. My body remembers, even when my mind is cloudy. Pain is not something easily forgotten. I am still healing from the abuse I dealt with as well. Not only do I experience this physical pain; I also remember the violation of being held down until I couldn’t breathe. Overweight, gleeful men pinned me down and forced me to receive these shots. I don’t feel all of this pain in the forefront of my mind at all times, but I cannot forget. Last night, I had this sensation. The physical pain brings forth the painful memories, so distanced from the present. Eight years may seem like many years to some people, but I can close my eyes and be there. When I walk through a hospital, I am triggered by the smell I am all too familiar with now. I cannot eat huge bowls of oatmeal with butter and brown sugar without remembering how close I came to starving to death. I can no longer drink apple juice without recalling the memories of my first depression. All of this is the pain of trauma I will never escape. But I move on, and the past grows smaller every day, as I let the light in.

–SJB

“Donuts” 12.03.21

Samantha Jane Buice

The stigma attached to psychiatric disorders reminds me of other assumptions we make in our daily lives because we do not know or understand the truth. We believe the speculations passed down to us for generations. We are told that “Cops love coffee and donuts.” Who doesn’t? But what about the diabetic cops? Or the cops trying to avoid sugar for other reasons? The cops who direly need to stay away from caffeine for health concerns? There are always exceptions. The same goes for mental illness. Everyone struggles with the donuts they are dealt. Many people experience trauma that sticks with them throughout their whole lives. Some experience stomach aches full of dread for indiscernible reasons.

Mental illness comes in different forms, as various as donut flavors. My flavor is Schizoaffective Disorder. It is a combination of Schizophrenia and Bipolar I Disorder, a chocolate covered donut with cream filling. I would not change that part of my being, much like I would not change my donut preference. There is nothing wrong with that flavor or any other, just a difference in taste. Figuratively, this donut burden is something I carry with me every day.

I have accepted my truth, with the hope that others will no longer be afraid to step out of the shadows with their donuts. I find it more aesthetically pleasing to speak about mental illness in a soft, positive and metaphorical way. I often personify my mental illness and have named him “Berman.” Today, he represents donuts of every flavor. I no longer see my “differences” as a curse, but as a blessing. I strive to distance others from their “curse,” and to see the upside. Many people have mental illness. Many people have a favorite donut flavor, which describes their situation. What’s your flavor?

–SJB