There will be a third book. I wrote and illustrated a third book, then decided not to publish it, as it delved too deeply into my present mind. So I started over. I have changed everything. I think in order to further develop the pieces that define me I must look to my past. This book will be a prequel to the first, and will include personal stories from my childhood.
When I was twenty-eight and single, I lived in a studio apartment in the shape of a small cabin. It was one of my favorite residences. My growth was stunted at sixteen, so my interior decorating taste and collections are child-like and colorful. This was my haven. It was a nest, and I shared it with the special people in my life and kept it hidden from those I expected would judge me. It was deeply personal. One day, some of my parents’ friends came to visit, and they wanted to see my space. I allowed them, knowing they would leave with knowledge unlikely to share. I was mistaken. After visiting my home, they described it in detail to the people I did not invite inside, and would have to live with after they left. My insides are kept secret in order to keep me safe, thus I publish the secrets I choose to tell. I do not tell them all.
The third book in my series will be about internal voices. Young adults in middle and high school are my target audience, though I hope others may find this helpful as well. These years are pivotal in their lives, and I wish I had a book like this when I was first experiencing symptoms of psychiatric disorder. People are prone to feel alone when they can see and hear things others cannot.
It is easy to feel “crazy,” though that is impossible.
Once, there was a lovely rose bush. In the morning, it brightened the world outside my kitchen window. The house adjacent to ours was dilapidated and had been vacant for several years, yet the flowers were always in bloom. Recently, the owners have decided to clean up and rent out that house. The construction workers paid no respect to the rose bush. When I peered out the window, the roses were gone. In their place was a large orange dumpster. For a couple of weeks, there has been no labor next door, but the dumpster remains. Yesterday, people came by explicitly to throw out garbage. The property is becoming horrifyingly close to a landfill. Maybe the roses are in a better place.
I live in a quiet little neighborhood, surrounded by delightful people. Retired couples dot the street; they pop their heads out of windows to say hello, and invite me to share their company. I have lived in this house for nearly six years, and everyone has been so kind and welcoming. My friends across the street are always working in their yard, taking pleasure in being outside. They have aided us with our own lawn, and helped me to pot and re-pot indoor plants that follow me home from Lowe’s. They have cared for our dog, Logan, on numerous occasions. These neighbors are protective of me, and they keep me in the loop about where they are when they aren’t home. I feel safe with the knowledge that I can count on them if I am in trouble. I hope they know they can count on me as well.
I have enjoyed many visits with the nice woman who lives to our left. Her back porch is level with our back yard. She has indoor cats, and our dogs seem to be in a competition for loudest “conversation,” as they almost always go outside simultaneously. This week, the massive ivy tree we share will finally be demolished, after many years of neglect.
One of our neighbors is knowledgeable about animals, and in an emergency dog situation she has imparted her wisdom and saved the day. She owns a female dog and has also hosted Logan several times. Logan pauses outside her house to get a glimpse of his “girlfriend” through the window every time we pass during a walk.
There is a warm and empathetic woman at the end of the street, who always has a word of encouragement. She offers her shoulder for tears which have yet to fall, and is very supportive of my endeavors. My heart swells when I see her and I have no doubts that she is in my corner.
One particular Disney princess felt ostracized in her neighborhood and sought refuge in a large, frightful, dark, mysterious mansion in the middle of nowhere. I am fortunate to live in a place where the people do not drive me away, but open their hearts. My neighbors have displayed that even in a world full of dilapidated buildings, flowers thrive.
Depression is a fog in the head, a hit from a train, a kick in the butt. I would venture to say that, whether or not we choose to admit it, everyone has experienced depression and/or anxiety at some point in our lives, in different magnitudes. Sometimes we are keenly aware of the stem, and at other points, the anxiety rises in our guts for no apparent reason. Either way, depression is a monster; and worthy of discussion. It is easy, especially in our lives right now, to become bored, to have cabin fever, to fall into a hole of deep despair and anxiety about our health and the state of the world; not to mention the problems that arise from financial crisis.
It sucks to make an effort in general when depression strikes. It feels impossible even to tear yourself away from your bed to take a shower. Eventually, though, you have to take a shower. But for the moment and/or a couple of days, may I just sing the praises of dry shampoo? If you have to go out in public (which I suggest you do, when it’s safe to do so) and resume your “normal” routine, try it out! It’s the best! When you finally do shower, you will most likely feel a bit better; trust me. In my experience, there is never a greater night’s sleep than a clean one.
Make sure you are getting enough sleep, but not too much. I know there’s a fine line there; and after trying everything under the sun to help me sleep, believe me; I understand that it is easier said than done. Getting enough sleep is just as important as not oversleeping. When suffering from a blow of depression, it’s easy to succumb to the quick sand of a comfortable bed, but you have to get the endorphins flowing so your body can heal; and you can be happy again. Go for a walk and try not to worry, especially about things you can’t control, or feelings of anxiety for no apparent reason.
In the future, when we are able to choose when to stay home and when to socialize with other people, the best advice I have for you is this: It is sometimes easier to watch life go on outside your window, curled up in a cozy position (hopefully clutching a good book), but your life is yours for a reason; so get out there into that scary, uncomfortable world; experiencing, creating, producing and socializing with other people, no matter how tempting it is to be home alone; and most likely, you will recover your smile.
—SJB
Uplifting Activity Suggestions:
*Watch the sunrise/sunset
*Draw or Paint
*Visit with a friend
*Exercise
*Stretch/Do yoga
*Go out for coffee
*Work in a garden
*Go outside and soak in the sunshine!
*Read
*Play board games
*Care for a pet/Let your pet care for you
*Join a group with others who share your interests
*Weighted blankets (gravity blankets) are a tremendous aid for subduing anxiety.
*Keep a journal and track your moods.
*Create a cozy atmosphere, find a comfortable place to feel at peace. Spend some time alone to become familiar with yourself (but not too much time alone, which can lead to depression).
*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.
*Gardening: Getting dirty on purpose and soaking in Vitamin D is refreshing.
*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 about 130 lbs, so I am supposed to drink at least 64 fluid ounces of water 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.
*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).
*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.
Children have specific body image issues that follow them into adulthood, even if they are unaware of them. When I was younger, I refused to wear constricting clothing of every kind. I wore large t-shirts, colorful skirts and dresses many sizes too big, mismatched socks, and a familiar green dress as often as I was allowed. I never wore anything elastic-related, shorts or pants in general, and especially no denim. My clothes hung from my frame like limp noodles. This was the case for years, until I wore a pair of denim shorts to school for the first time. It was breaking news.
When you are seven years old and shy as a mouse, an enormous spotlight shining directly on your tiny body is mortifying. In my elementary school, every class had to sit apart from the others at lunch. I was fortunate to sit next to Caleb Carter because he liked corn. I prefer bread, so we swapped my corn for his roll consistently. One fateful day, I wore shorts. He noticed, and called the attention of the whole cafeteria.
“Samantha Buice is wearing pants!”
It was a big deal. Following this outburst, it rarely happened again.
Sixth grade approached, and I was self-conscious about my body. I think the reason for the baggy clothes in my past was due to discomfort as well as claustrophobia. When middle school began, I was hiding under an over-sized jacket every day; I was retreating into my shell. Eventually, I ventured out from under my rock, despite the low self-esteem I was harboring.
Observing the media and the people around me, I began to believe that “skinny” was desirable. When I was sixteen, I began dieting for the first time. Most weight-loss programs recommend waiting until age eighteen to begin a regime. I weighed 136lbs and decided I was overweight; I didn’t wait. I ran cross-country in high school; I drank a shake, a diet soda, and ate an apple for lunch every day. When I first developed symptoms of mania, I lost my appetite and met my weight-loss goals. I spent the rest of my life yo-yo dieting and believing there was always something to “fix.”
“They” say that you are your own worst critic. Women, men, teenagers look into the mirror. Many are dissatisfied with their appearance. Something is not “perfect.” In my journey to self-discovery, I have realized that no one is perfect on the outside or on the inside. “Skinny” is not healthy, and “strong” is a powerful description of an experienced traveler. Strength comes from within, without a diet or a mirror, but with reflection.
When you feel completely alone, remember the people in your life who shine on your rainy days. Appreciate them, and follow their rainbows. The company we keep molds us into who we are today. If we are fortunate to have friends and family in our lives, we must not take that support for granted. Many do not possess such blessings.
Recently, I traveled to Chicago. The wind is nearly strong enough to lift you from the ground and toss you about like a wandering balloon. Doors are heavier to prevent them from splaying open with the draft. The air is dry, akin to a desert, and water is a precious commodity. Several times a day, I purchased bottled water. Many times, I didn’t taste a drop, as I observed those who needed it more than I did; I gave it away. The recipients accepted and quickly retreated, cradling the water as if it would be stolen upon discovery.
One day, I paused at the street corner to wait for the “walk signal.” There was a woman struggling so obviously with her inner voices. She was self-medicating with alcohol, but it appeared to have no lasting effects. I wanted to approach this person and tell her that I understood what she was going through, but stopped myself. I have no idea what she was going through. My inner voices are neatly tucked away, due to medications, therapy, money, family, a home, a stable routine and a beautiful life. This woman was homeless, had seemingly uncontrollable issues, no support system, and a five dollar beer.
Every morning, I wake up in a safe environment. I play fetch with my dog while I drink my first cup of coffee, all while wearing large comfortable clothing. I write, draw, and color, hoping to spread my message and help others in need. I am eternally grateful for the life which has been bestowed upon me. I have my struggles, but I do not face them alone.
Grandparents do not always grow on trees. Sometimes, even their lengthiest branches bear no fruit. It appears that the limbs of these family trees end here. Some of us are fortunate to know the parents of our parents. Many people do not have children. Others have children with alternate aspirations. Grandparents do not always grow on trees, but sometimes if you climb high enough you can reach them. Some grandparents are adopted.
Twenty years ago, I volunteered at “Vacation Bible School” with my church. I was assigned to co-teach the art class with another woman. Her name is Sandy. There was a palpable sense of camaraderie. We conversed easily and became fast friends. I mentioned that none of my grandparents were local. She told me she had no grandchildren and likely never would. Tears filled her eyes when I asked Sandy to be my “Grandma.” We planted our own family tree.
Sandy and I built a strong friendship and grew closer over the years. We were neighbors. Often, I ran a loop from my house, passing hers on the right. Countless times, I stopped for a “water break,” which became a visit, a Diet Coke, and a ride home after dark. I always felt safe in her home, and it was a place of great comfort. I grew up knowing her, loving her, and skipping school to visit her. Sometimes, when the burden of anxiety was too heavy to attend a drawing class, I knew without a doubt where I needed to be. The television played in the background as Sandy and I talked; I ate my favorite ice cream (which was always on hand), the anxiety melting.
Years passed. Decades faded away. We moved to separate locations, but we were always together. When I ask Sandy how she is doing, her most often reply is:
“Gouda, gouda, gouda.”
Grandma’s tree blossoms in my heart all year long.
The thirteenth of July is a sacred day of celebration. Not so long ago, my mom was born on this day; an angel on Earth. Her presence in this world showers those around her with joy. My mom has always known how to cure my colds, my headaches, and upset stomach. She is especially helpful when I call her late at night, to discourage my thoughts of imaginary ailments. I always know that she will banish my suspicions, but I call her for the comfort of her voice. She is the sun in my sky. Mom makes me laugh harder than anyone with whom I have ever encountered in this life. A five hour car ride together passes as if in an hour. She is great company. When Mom is asked for gift ideas, all she wants is time with her family. I have never doubted her love for us.
Often, when I introduce a new friend, I say “This is my mom.” Margaret Buice is not only a mom. She is a beautiful woman, inside and out. She is patient and kind. She cares about others, and puts herself last. She is gentle, compassionate; a nurturer. She is gorgeous, and humble. I love her more than she could ever know, though I remind her every day. On this day, and every day I am so grateful to have such a great mom, and a best friend.
There was a missing piece in our life puzzle. I turned to my husband one night and said, “I want a dog,” to which he responded, “Okay.” I don’t think he knew I was serious until I started looking. I was in search of a puppy; I viewed many online profiles and looked at several pictures. My quest was complete when I discovered a litter of six puppies born on the Fourth of July; there were five females and one male. The shelter was accepting applications for adoption.
Rush (my husband) and I went to visit the shelter. I drove forty-five minutes every day for a week to see the puppies. I sat with them in their kennel; the shy, quiet, male puppy stole my heart. We adopted and brought him home as soon as we were allowed. His name is “Logan.”
I started carrying Logan on my shoulder when he weighed about three pounds. He still rides there, but now weighs about ten. A few days after his adoption, we ordered food from a restaurant and went to retrieve it. The waitress saw Logan and said that she had recently adopted a puppy that looked similar, and we made the connection. They were from the same litter. His sister’s name is “Juniper.”
Naturally, we became best friends. Every year, we have a party. We tell them that the country is celebrating their birthday.
“If it’s so great outside, why are all the bugs trying to get in?” -Jim Gaffigan
Mathematics can be programmed into your mind at a young age. Some students are capable of retaining that information for a lifetime, while others struggle for years to keep up. Math contains facts. Facts can be taught.
Children born into bilingual households may theoretically grow up with knowledge of two cultures and fluent speech from both. Young minds are most malleable. Reading and writing are important skills to hone. Facts can be learned, skills can be practiced, but imagination is imbedded in our minds at an early age.
Today, imagination is not so easily accessible. There are children’s television shows based on how to play and how to pretend.
Once Upon a Time, play was important and essential to growing up. Playing fostered social skills. It was a gateway for friendships. Imagination is the root of play. You will not find it on a screen that provides all the answers and causes lethargy in the mind. Imagination seeps through the cracks and slowly fades with brain cells.
Go outside? Why? What is fun about playing outside?
Make real friends, outside of your virtual reality. Create original games with your friends. Climb trees (their bark is worse then their bite). Make forts. Run through the woods. Lay on the grass; have a picnic and read under the shade of a large tree. Swim. Take your time. Appreciate the reality around you and enjoy every minute.
You won’t find this magic inside.
I am grateful for a childhood spent outside, and for my imagination that lives on.
There is so much hate in this world. Look around, read the news, watch as people become hostile to one another. Love hovers above us, within reach if only we aspire to seize it. Nothing more than a warm smile and eye contact with a stranger can brighten a day. Our lives consist of moments. All we are afforded is “Now.” Squeeze every drop from your life’s lemons. Share your lemonade with those thirstier than yourself. Appreciate the light in your life, and understand that nothing lasts forever; indeed, this makes it more valuable. When you depart from the company of family members and friends, resolve issues before they build up and ruin your relationships. Otherwise, you may live your life with grief and misplaced guilt. We cannot control the past, but we are capable of slowing down to embrace the world around us as it is at present. Let love conquer hate, and may we welcome each day as if it is our last.
–SJB
“You pile up enough tomorrows, and you’ll find you’ve collected nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays.”
