Samantha Jane Buice

Due to the increase of COVID-19 cases per day, my husband and I have decided not to participate in a large family gathering. We feel this is best for the health of everyone involved. We will; however, be celebrating Christmas. I will be busy with preparations and celebrations, and so will not be writing an article next Friday. I wish you all a safe and happy holiday!!

Chester began “chasing” Lucy. He put all the moves on her. He told jokes, gave compliments, and visited the gallery as often as he could. She still seemed unaware of his feelings for her.

He fell in love with the girl behind the counter. This girl made him laugh like no other person ever had. She smiled at him in a special way that made him believe she reserved that one just for him. She intrigued him, and he wanted to know everything about Lucy. He yearned to kiss her for the first time, but knew that slow and steady wins the race. They built a foundation out of a beautiful friendship, and the only direction now seemed to be up.

Chester couldn’t wait any longer to know how she felt about him, so he asked.

He gave her the earrings he had picked out for “someone special,” and asked her to date him exclusively. She said “Yes!”

To be continued…

—-SJB

Chester visited the art gallery every day with the secret agenda of spending time with Lucy. His cover story was that he was trying to find the perfect earrings for someone special. It was taking a few weeks to choose the right pair. The earrings were located on the counter very near Lucy. So, Chester took his time, and began to build a foundation with Lucy as he “hunted” for the perfect pair of earrings.

***As Chester enters the gallery, Lucy greets him like any other customer, saying, “Let me know if you have any questions.” Then she realizes it’s Chester and sits up straighter. She gives him a look she doesn’t share with every other customer. Maybe she has feelings for him too? This is what he hopes for.

Chester approaches.

“Hi, Lucy! I am here to…find…the perfect…earrings…for someone special.”

He notices an earring tree and asks Lucy for help.

These? Or these? Or these?

He couldn’t decide that day, because he needed an excuse to come back often…to see Lucy.***

To be continued…

—SJB

***Before you read this post (in case you didn’t read the last one), Chester is my cartoon self and a creative outlet for my daily feelings, my celebrations, and my life struggles. Sometimes it helps me solve problems as I take a step back and project them onto Chester. He is my cartoon journal, my self animation, and my comic relief.

I know that yesterday was Thanksgiving, but should not every day be filled with thanks? I am thankful for my life; especially the people in my life, who bring me so much joy. What is more important than taking a step back to appreciate what we are most thankful for? Perhaps realizing how much we are taking for granted.

I am especially grateful that Chester met Lucy***

Chester and Lucy are beginning another boring day. Lucy is at work in front of a computer screen, as usual. Chester is at home in front of the television, as he has not been employed in several months.

Little did they know, something special would happen today.

Chester rose from his couch and headed into town. He entered an art gallery, where he laid eyes on a beautiful woman behind the counter.

That was the day when Chester met Lucy.

—SJB

To be continued…

The Evolution of Chester:

I began my construction of Chester in 2004. He represents my cartoon self. I turned to Chester for an outlet in which to vent about my everyday experiences, to aid in the healing process of a really bad day, and to celebrate great moments in my life. Chester celebrates, relates, and recreates my feelings in his cartoon life. His appearance has changed over time, due to the fact that as I grew up, Chester grew with me. His updated appearance is above. Here is an image of the original Chester:

Chester wasn’t happy all the time. He still isn’t. But illustrating my cartoon life is a creative outlet that helps me to process my feelings. It is a coping mechanism. I strongly recommend giving it a try. Sometimes separating yourself from your own feelings and problems helps you to see them more clearly.

In the following articles, you will meet new characters in Chester’s life, and hear the tale of Chester’s greatest love, Lucy (pictured below).

—SJB

I have made it no secret that running has been one of the key ingredients which make up who I am. If you have read my book (I hope so), I have clearly illustrated the qualities I consider to be pieces of my soul. They form the puzzle that defines me.

While most of these pieces cannot be taken from me, there are some parts of my life that have been affected by my illness. I can no longer run. I have been stripped of my wings.

I have been running since before I could walk. My dad used to say to me encouragingly, “Run like the wind!” I was the fastest kid at my elementary school and no one would race me during recess because they knew they would lose. I’m not just saying that to brag. I would ask other kids to race and they all turned me down. I held the fastest record for the mile in the Presidential Physical Fitness program at my school.

Growing up, I learned that running could be more than just a sprint. It was a long and therapeutic journey through the woods. It was running until I had no more energy, and kicking it at the end of a race with everything I had left. That was my favorite part.

The cheering crowd, the first place ribbon.

None of that compared to the the runner’s high I felt every time after I ran. A feeling of accomplishment. A feeling of euphoria that cannot be reproduced or bottled up. That is when I stretched my wings.

I live in a small town, the kind of town in which you can walk everywhere you go. In my case, run everywhere. For two years, when I first moved here, I was known as the “Runner girl.” I ran literally everywhere I went. I was daring, and crossed the street although the “walk” signal wasn’t green. I was fast, and very irresponsible. I wore shoes without the right support for my knees and joints. I ruined the capability of ever running again.

My wings weren’t stolen from me. They disintegrated slowly each time my feet touched the ground. I blame myself, but that doesn’t mean I don’t mourn them.

I don’t run anymore. Not everywhere I go. Not anywhere I go. For three reasons.

My knees are ruined.

I have ocular gyro crises.

I hear voices inside my head when I run.

So I don’t run. But it eats me up, and I still cry after all this time.

I find other ways to fly. I wear my hair down, and when I walk it flows like a cape behind me. I walk. I create art. I write. I illustrate. I make things for family and friends. I talk to you.

I wrote a book, and whenever I sell one, I feel like I can fly. I feel like my book is making a difference in someone else’s life besides my own. I can fly when I can help others.

I had thought I lost my wings forever, but now I have found them.

—SJB

Saturday, October 10th, 2020 was World Mental Health Day. On that day, I married my partner of four years, Rush Smith. On the back cover of my book, in my biography, he is listed as my partner. Now he is my husband! It took me four years to wear him down, but finally he caved. I am so very grateful that our paths crossed and that our relationship has reached the next level. I am excited to experience the rest of my life with him.

Not only do I get everything I could ever want in a husband, I hit the jackpot with in-laws! From what I’ve heard, not many people get along well with their partner’s extended family. We do!

I met Rush’s parents before I met him. We attend the same church. A few months later I met Rush in his art gallery. His parents are amazing people and have been married for 50 years, with an anniversary on our wedding day. After Rush and I made our vows, they renewed theirs. It was a very special day and could not have been more perfect.

I am so happy to join his family. He has a really sweet sister who is married to the new big brother I have always wanted, and they have four incredible kids. I am an aunt!! I have much to be grateful for. In a world riddled with COVID-19, it is important to stop and give thanks for the blessings this life does afford us, no matter how small or how great.

Today I am grateful for my life and the blessings bestowed upon me, which have lead me to such happiness.

–SJB

*I kept a journal throughout my teen years, and one of the entries was about my aunt’s wedding. She was 32 when she got married, and I stated that “I would not wait THAT long to get married!!” I am 32, and I just got married.

During my stay in the first hospital I attended, I made a friend with the fairy tale name of “Robin.” He was my side-kick. I loved him more than any other person I met in any of the hospitals. He was one of those friends whose name you remember and never forget.

Not only was Robin a friend, but a super hero. He encouraged me to continue keeping a sketchbook and to draw whatever came to mind. We wrote stories and illustrated them together. He was determined to figure out how my brain worked and why my head was so mixed up. He seemed to care more about helping me than in helping himself.

Our minds were more similar than we knew. Robin has schizophrenia. I didn’t know at the time that I had similar “broken” pieces inside of me. We aren’t broken. There is nothing wrong with us. But at the time, there was something that needed to change. We needed healing, and we fed that to one another.

He was very smart, creative, kind, and brave. He helped me to build a thicker layer of skin, which I would need later. He never threw me out, no matter what I said or did to hurt him, on days when I was especially not in my right mind. He was so patient. I wish he could know how important he was to me. I have no way to reach him anymore, but I wish he could hear my words of praise.

Robin, you helped me to stay sane, but we had a good time even when we weren’t. If you’re out there, thank you for believing in me. You were more than a side-kick. You were a great friend. I love you.

—SJB

I know it was their job. I know it was because I wasn’t taking my medication. But they didn’t have to enjoy it.

While in the hospital, having been in seclusion for several months, I wasn’t taking my medication because I thought the doctors were trying to poison me. I thought they were evil monsters out to get me. Some of them were. I wasn’t in my right mind. I couldn’t be held responsible for not complying, even if they were trying to help me. It was not my fault that I wouldn’t take my medication. It was the result of Berman’s (my mental illness) hold over my mind and body. I could not escape him. He filled me up and I was drowning.

I don’t think that anyone could ever really understand—no matter how I try to explain it—the pain and fear I experienced while being held captive; of being alone in such a fragile state. The magnitude of memories lost forever. The inability to comprehend the concept of food; the purpose of a plastic fork. The most frightening thing about starvation is that I was unaware of how close I was to death.

More devastating than almost dying is not recognizing your parents. A lifetime of memories wiped from my brain by a mixture of psychosis and electro convulsive therapy. I would wake up in my hospital bed with a headache so horrible it felt I had undergone brain surgery. Maybe that was another reason not to trust the doctors involved.

The worst thing about those doctors is that they played along with my delusion. They never told me that everything was fine. The world was not ending. My family was safe. I was not really the antichrist. They pretended to believe me. So I was more afraid.

Because I didn’t take my medication, I was injected with doses of tranquilizing anti-psychotics. It was painful. It was never a gentle, friendly nurse administering the shots. The large men came into that tiny room with smiles on their faces. One horrible, grinning fat man sat on my back, crushing me to the point that I couldn’t breathe while another struggled to keep me still long enough to give me the shot. It seemed like they looked forward to it. Like I was being punished and they had won a battle. Because I won more battles than they did.

They had to double team to put me down. I was a force to be reckoned with. They didn’t just lock that door behind them. They would head for the door without turning their backs to me and try to close the door quickly enough that I could not escape. They locked that door, planted themselves in front of it, and hoped I wouldn’t break it down. They were afraid of me. I’m sure they enjoyed every moment that I was trapped underneath them, gasping for air.

I won. I escaped. Finally. After several months, I was free to go. Not because I was healed, but because the hospital decided I would heal better at home than I would if I stayed in the hospital. After a while, they were right. But I still feel violated by monsters. I will never forget that. I will never forget their smiling faces. I will never forget being overpowered by two large smug devils. But I will also never forget that now, I can shut the door on them. Because I learned to swim.

—SJB

*When someone is suffering with delusions, it is of utmost importance not to play along and feed the illness. Make sure that person feels loved and safe. Tell them they are loved and safe. There is really not a way to calm a person’s delusions other than to wait them out or to tranquilize them. Many people take medications to avoid delusions. I do. So I know that someone having a delusion believes the delusions wholeheartedly; that something is real when it isn’t. It really is almost impossible for another person to talk them out of what they believe to their core. But it is important that you try to make them feel like they are in a safe place and that you are there for them. Do not pretend that the delusions are real and that the person having them is in their right mind. It is scary to be in that position. Terrifying.