Samantha Jane Buice

“Prince Jesus”

Once Upon a Time…

There lived a troubled man. He was locked away in a tower (mental hospital) because he had delusions of grandeur; which is to say that he believed firmly in ideas that were not fact. He was sure of his beliefs. No one could persuade him otherwise.

The man called himself “Prince Jesus,” for he believed he was the risen Lord. He did not believe this because he was self important. He did not believe this because he thought it was his duty to save the world. He honestly believed that he was God. This was his delusion. And he could not escape it.

Prince Jesus had a friend named Jane. Jane was crafty. She too was trapped in the tower. She knew that if only Prince Jesus would pretend he didn’t believe these things (even if he did), he would be released. She told him so. But he held on. Tight.

Prince Jesus and Jane soon became good friends. Often they plotted their escape. He was allowed more time outside because he smoked. This was a rare time when Jane wished she smoked so she would have another excuse to step into the sunshine.

At the time, Jane had left her dog at her parents’ house while she was in the tower. She and the dog shared a very special bond. He was called Charlie and was flown into Georgia from Louisiana to live with her. He loved her more than he did any other person in the world, and she was closer to him than she was to most people.

When Jane gained weight, Charlie gained weight. When Jane was sick, Charlie was sick. When Jane dated boys that Charlie didn’t like, he chased them away. When Jane went into the tower, Charlie went into the hospital.

Charlie was very ill. The witches (therapists) and wizards (psychiatrists) in the tower did something they never had before. They cleared the courtyard and opened the gate to let Charlie in for Jane to hold him, perhaps for the last time. Charlie saw that Jane was alive, and he fought to stay that way for her. With a three percent chance of survival after a risky blood transfusion, he lived for several years afterward. She attributed some of that health and good fortune to her friends in the tower, especially

Prince Jesus.

Before they opened the courtyard gate, Prince Jesus suggested that everyone hold hands and recite the Serenity Prayer. Those friends prayed together with all their might before clearing the courtyard so that Charlie could enter.

Though Prince Jesus believed himself to be God incarnate, he was a human like the rest of us. It was a delusion. But he certainly gave Jane cause to believe in him, God or otherwise. Thank you, Prince Jesus.

—SJB

When I was sixteen, I was dealing with a really bad case of mania. I battled my way through some of the worst days. I fought hard, but sometimes the universe has a way of kicking you in the teeth no matter what you do.

I visited with psychiatrists only. I didn’t have a therapist until I was knee deep in Bipolar I Disorder and drowning in thoughts and feelings. That was in 2009. The therapist was a much needed presence in my life. I don’t know where I would be without her. We worked on some serious issues and untangled many complicated knots in my brain.

There was something else missing in my life. For a very long time, there was a little void in my life and I didn’t know how to fill it. I frivolously spent money trying.

Let me back up a bit. In 2006, my great grandmother went into assisted living and couldn’t take her chihuahua, Charlie, with her. She held interviews to find him a suitable home, but no one was good enough for Charlie—until I was.

Charlie, Mom and I flew back home to Georgia from Louisiana. Charlie had found a new home! I know that chihuahuas are one man/woman dogs. They love one person best and tolerate everyone else. I wanted to be Charlie’s person so badly, and I soon became his favorite. My void was filled.

Charlie and I shared a special bond. When I gained weight, Charlie gained weight. When I dated boys he didn’t like, he chased them away. I went away to college and couldn’t take him. Every time I came home, Charlie behaved as though I had come back from the dead. When I went into the hospital, so did he. We could read each other’s energy. He became blind in his old age, but nothing stopped him.

Charlie died in 2016. I thought I would never love again.

Two years later, I was sitting on the couch with my soon to be husband, and said, “I would like to get a dog.” He thought I was kidding, but I actively began my search.

I was looking for a dog that I could train to be my emotional support animal. I discovered a litter of puppies at a nearby animal shelter, and after an exhausting application process, we brought home the only male puppy, and named him “Logan.” I named him Logan because I went to visit those puppies every day for a week before they allowed me to take one home. If you have watched a movie about mutants–particularly one with large claws that extend from his knuckles–you will understand that I named him after that character. He crawled on top of the other puppies to gain my attention, pulling at my braid and clawing me with nails in much need of a trim.

Finally, I brought Logan home. From a very young age, I taught him to ride in a backpack carrier so that he could travel undetected or fly in a plane more conveniently. He has also been riding on my shoulder since the very beginning of his life, and acting as a neck rest when we ride in the car.

Logan eats lunch at 2PM. I take my afternoon medication at that time. After he eats his lunch, he reminds me to take my medicine if I get distracted and forget.

I am not built to have human children, and sometimes that makes me sad. But when I start to cry about that, Logan climbs in my lap as if to say, “Mom, I am your kid.”

Logan is so smart, so funny, so adorable. He is very helpful and extremely comforting. Emotional support animals are generally trained to be that way.

If you have the desire and the means to obtain and train an emotional support animal, I am supportive. I can’t imagine life without him.

—SJB

In Memory of Charles Patrick Buice:

In Celebration of Logan Smith Buice

“Sanctuary”

Once, Jane stumbled upon a magical cabin. When she escaped the tower, she felt broken and had no one to talk to about her feelings; no one who would understand what went on inside her head. As she was wandering in the woods, she heard laughter and followed it to its source.

When she found it, a sense of peace washed over her, filling her with only the best memories she could recall. The ugly truths in her mind faded away into nothing. She felt compelled to enter the cabin. She couldn’t leave until she found out why she was drawn to this place. It must have been fate, leading her to healing.

As she searched in vain for the entrance, she began to lose hope. Then, she pressed her head against the side of the cabin and a door appeared. She didn’t know why, but soon the secret would be revealed.

She cautiously crossed the threshold into the cabin and several heads turned their attention to the doorway. They smiled in welcome, as if they had been expecting her.

They answered all of her questions. Who were they? A group of likeminded people, conversing about their traumas, healing their wounds, and discussing the shared experiences they had in towers and afterward. The door appeared for her because this environment was suited to her needs.

She laughed with them, cried with them, and contributed to the chores around the cabin they all shared. She washed dishes on some days, and on others she was the secretary. Sometimes she vacuumed. Everyone did their part to keep up the cabin.

Jane was so grateful to find friends who knew exactly what she was going through, having been there before. It was amazing! She made lasting friendships and worked through her issues. She became more comfortable in social settings, and less ashamed or embarrassed of her illness. She felt understood. She no longer felt alone, and that knowledge was priceless.

She realized that the magic of the cabin was not on the outside, but inside.

—SJB

Many people suffer from memory loss for some reason or another. Some are older and their minds are failing them. Some have illnesses that whisk their memories away. Some people have memory loss because they have suffered great trauma and their minds want to forget. I don’t want to forget. But I do.

Before I was admitted to the first hospital in the string of hospitals that I inhabited in 2013, my psychiatrist had been negligent. He had taken away my anti-psychotic and not replaced it; then he went on vacation. I couldn’t reach him when I needed him most.

In the first hospital, having been on medication for many years, I decided to see if I could do without it. I quickly realized that was not an option. If I didn’t take my pills, I got a painful shot of an anti-psychotic in the rear end. That made me drowsy, and I began to lose time.

I kept a sketchbook and recorded my days so I wouldn’t forget them. I tried desperately to remember and to hold on to my sanity. There were times when I would black out and say offensive things or behave irrationally without my knowledge. I would suddenly go dark and say something I wouldn’t remember a second later. But those around me were affected and didn’t know it was without my control.

After many months in hospitals, I did lose some of my sanity. It was easy to lose hope that I would ever be myself again.

I forgot how to eat. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t take my medication. I had shock therapy. I no longer recognized my parents. I don’t pretend to know how they felt at that desperate time. Now that I am aware of forgetting them, it pains me, though it was without my control.

Today, and every day since, my memory has never been the same. I forget what I am saying in the middle of a thought. I don’t remember watching a movie two nights ago. At the end of the day, I can’t remember walking with my mom that morning.

My short-term memory fails me because of my trauma, but I don’t forget the important memories that make me who I am. I hold on to my parents and those I love with both arms wrapped tightly around them. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. I never lose sight of the light that burns ever brighter in their presence.

I may forget, but I also remember.

—SJB

Side effects of certain meds are sometimes inevitable. Even without medication, certain changes can develop within your body and mind when you are unstable. As for me, I got the rare ones.

The message I am trying to send to you is hope. Hope for a future you can be happy with, despite the side-effects. A future you can control. I would say that most everyone does not develop the rare side-effects that I have. I just thought I would share, to be completely honest about the fact that while side-effects do sometimes develop, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Meds have greatly improved my life. I have tested the waters of a life without medication, and it was to my detriment. But everyone has a choice, and I won’t pretend to know your issues. I am just sharing mine. Everyone’s story is different. These are the Chronicles of Jane.

When I was first diagnosed at age sixteen–and it was decided that I had Bipolar I Disorder–I was on a medication that made me so tired that I couldn’t keep track of when or if I had taken it daily. My dad had to administer it. When it was decided that that med wasn’t the best for me, my psychiatrist moved in a different direction. That was when some of the worst side-effects began.

I am a runner. Or I used to be. Now I have bad knees and am afraid of a certain side-effect that ails me particularly when I exercise strenuously. It is named “ocular gyro crisis.” It is very rare and hard to diagnose. For a while, I had trouble explaining the symptoms, and had to deal with it a lot longer than I would have if anyone really understood what was going on. I will try to explain it to you.

When I first started to notice, I was confused and terribly afflicted by this side-effect. It was extremely difficult to deal with, especially during cross country races. My eyes would travel up, though I tried to focus on the path in front of me. I would focus on the ground, but my eyes would slowly move up to the tops of trees. To the untrained eye, it looked like I was rolling my eyes. I could not focus them. My coach suggested I was dehydrated and recommended that I drink more fluids.

After many efforts to explain it to my parents, as I am failing to explain it to you, they took me to see my psychiatrist. He said that he thought it could be a rare side-effect of my anti-psychotic, but that he had never seen a case of it. He called a neurologist. The neurologist said that he had never seen a case of this either, but that the symptoms sounded accurate for a diagnosis of “ocular gyro crisis.” He conferred with a neurologist who specialized in eye movement. That doctor had seen only nine cases in his whole career, but he confirmed.

My psychiatrist switched my meds again, but unfortunately, it didn’t go away. I now take a prescription form of antihistamine three times a day, as well as two over the counter antihistamines every day at two o’clock. But I also don’t run anymore. And for me, that is the equivalent of losing my wings.

I took other medications and had other side-effects. Severe cases of acne, and unfortunately, rapid weight gain. I went from little more than 100 lbs to 186 lbs in the course of less than a year. It took me three years to lose all of that weight, and if you are struggling with weight gain due to meds, I can identify. I know how miserable I was, and don’t wish it on anyone. I am not trying to body shame. Everyone has a beautiful body designed by God. Meds can cause weight gain just as easily as natural causes.

It is not my intent to deter you from seeking help or from trying meds with the supervision of a psychiatrist. There are several side-effects with many different medications, but the risks–for me–greatly outweigh the alternative. And there is always hope, and great probability that you can work through all of them and rise above.

—SJB

I once believed that there was something wrong with me. I was different from those around me on a level which I didn’t understand. I was scared. I was confused. I was deliriously happy, excited, full of energy, and lacking sleep and proper nutrition. I talked more than anyone I know and the words streamed from my mouth with no filter; straight out of my mind, with no regard for the outcome or the feelings and reactions of those around me.

I was living in Savannah at the time, attending high school. I was a freshman, so I was already anxious about meeting new people and stressed about getting good grades. There was more, though.

I had excellent grades, and was hyper focused. Teachers didn’t know how to respond to my special behavior. I wasn’t unruly. I just acted very oddly.

In my Algebra class, I sat on the floor and stretched my legs. I was paying attention, so the teacher let it slide. In my English class, my handwriting was all kinds of sloppy and covered in tears, but I understood concepts and was a bright student, so the teacher took no notice.

I was awkward and lacked certain social skills. I couldn’t connect fully with the kids in my class. I passed out Mardi Gras beads to students who seemed they needed me to “brighten their day,” including students I didn’t know. I quickly earned the name “Bead Girl.”

I carried a lunch box full of small toys with me to all of my classes. I put the moves on a couple of guys who had no interest in getting to know me better. Even then, I understood why. I felt–and thought– I was weird. Broken, even.

Once, I went to a soccer tournament with my team. None of the girls were super friendly to me, but by then, that was what I had come to expect. During a game, I was on the side lines and went to the concession stand. I asked the boy behind the counter if he would hold my tiara while I played my game. He asked me where I was from and I told him, “Heaven.”

When my coach did put me in the game, it was raining and the field was very muddy. I took advantage of that by doing somersaults with my playing time. I was quickly removed and placed on the side lines for the rest of the day.

Time passed. I remained in the dark about what was going on with me, and then for a while I was stable. But that didn’t last forever. When the summer after my sophomore year in high school arrived, the presence of “Berman” surfaced once more. It was unbearable.

My family and I decided to seek professional help, and I learned about psychiatry. I rode on the back of my dad’s motorcycle to the doctor’s office, and for the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope.

After a few minutes, the psychiatrist stamped a label on my head. I had Bipolar I Disorder! It was a thing! A real thing! A treatable illness! I finally found the answer to a long suffering problem. Relief like none I have seen before or since washed over me, filling me with the truth that I was not alone, and that there was really nothing wrong with me.

It has been a battle. There is no cure. But I can say that knowing is better than suffering alone or in silence. Remember who you are, and don’t let Berman win.

I have been completely honest with you. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to email me or to comment. There is no reason to be afraid. Own it.

–SJB

I think everyone suffers from a little anxiety, some more than others, and many without reason. I personally suffer from the explainable anxiety, as well as the hole in the pit of my stomach in times when I can find no answer to the darkness.

I am anxious about what is going on in the world right now, and what the future looks like. I am afraid of the outcome of this virus, and the hate surrounding us every day. Just the other day I watched a movie about a familiar animated female Native American I have felt a connection with since I was a child. The white men invade North America, and they claim it for their own. In that movie, when the chief (the lead character’s father) stands to lead his people against these invaders, he says, “These white men are dangerous,” and it cuts me to the core. I started crying uncontrollably. There is so much that we don’t know about each other, and our hearts are hardened against others different from ourselves. I am anxious about that. I am sad about that. I am angry about that.

Right now my personal anxiety is due largely to the fact that I don’t really know how the world is accepting my truth. My family and friends are supportive, but I am writing a blog that seems to have no followers, and I am finding it difficult to market my book. I thought the hard part was over. Writing and illustrating my book was fun! Publishing was stressful, but I made it through. Now I deal with the issue of getting it out in the world and into the hands of those who really need it. So, I stress about my book and the path it will travel.

I interviewed a group of people who deal with anxiety every day, and they gave me some helpful tips that you may want to try. Here are their suggestions:

~Deep, focused breathing

~Meditation

~Yoga

~Essential oils

~Movement/exercise

~Shift your focus and replace anxious thoughts with positive ones

~Create a powerful happy place/situation to control

~Be productive

~Call a friend

~Weighted blanket

~Tv, music, or fan helping to sleep/distraction

~Check off To-Do list

~Stabile, consistent routine

~Perhaps medication

~Mindfulness

These people are reliable sources. I recommend giving a few if not all of these activities a try and see what works best for you!

I recommend taking a break from reading the news. Right now, it can be extremely uncomfortable and definitely a cause of great anxiety. Be well, and stay safe!

—SJB

My partner and I like to watch scary movies. Inevitably, many of these movies involve asylums. It isn’t only scary movies. Asylums pop up in various genres of film and other media all over the world, misleading viewers about the truth and feeding the stigma.

The ignorance and denial surrounding mental illness is found not only in the media, but in the hardened hearts and minds of individuals in society who not only deny the existence of the illness, but associate the “crazy” and “dangerous” people in our midst with fear and misunderstanding.

People are afraid of the unknown. Many choose not to acknowledge the truth even when it is put right in their path. This fear and these lies about mental illness and the treatment of it are sending the message that “crazy” people exist.

It makes me physically sick to watch these movies when they involve asylums, and the way they portray people with real problems. When they show extreme forms of treatment, like ECT, I have to close my ears and shut my eyes. That is too real for me, and the movies cannot possibly do it justice. I can’t handle it, even now.

Writers are supposed to write about what they know, right? Writers, whether they write books, articles, or movie scripts should write about what they know, not about issues they pretend to know about. I don’t pretend to know everything there is to know about mental illness, but I have seen and experienced my share of it. The pain lingers.

The ignorance in our society must be replaced with knowledge and understanding. If we continue to keep our silence, the fear and lies will continue to surround us.

It won’t be easy. Real change takes time. But we must bring out the truth. No one is “crazy.” That is a word used to cause more segregation.

We CAN lose the stigma; first by accepting our own truth and then by spreading the message that this is real, and no one is “normal.”

—SJB

It is clear that in this time of great fear and anxiety, we are suffering loss. Many people have lost jobs. Many people have lost lives. Many others have suffered the loss of loved ones. Due to this pandemic and all of the ways we are supposed to protect ourselves from each other, the greatest loss we have all suffered is the physical and emotional loss of contact with the ones we love. It is devastating. It is depressing. It is a broken time in our history, and we know not when it will end. This is scary.

We do not know when this will end. It could be months. It could be years. I don’t know about you, but I am going to be seriously upset if this pandemic ruins Christmas.

This illness is invisible, much like mental illness. Society is certainly treating it that way. Some people are taking measures to protect themselves and others. Others are not. Some of us are displaying the extent of selfish nature in the human race. Others are doing great things and helping people in every way possible. Actions like these are the reason we cannot generalize groups of people for the actions of a few.

We all handle grief in our own ways.

Right now, I am feeling grateful for every good part of my life. I am staying in the now and trying to avoid the news at all costs. It only upsets me. But it is impossible to close my eyes and imagine that this is not real.

At first, it seemed like a nightmare. I would wake up any second, be pinched and come back to a reality where everything was really okay.

 There was a time in my life where I was surrounded by so much darkness that I no longer recognized my parents. I cannot describe the gratitude I feel for coming out of that coma-like daze.

For a while, I was starving. I forgot how to eat. Literally. Silverware (made of plastic) placed on my right, food in front of me, having no idea how they related to one another.

My mom made her famous homemade bread, and I ate that until I started to fill out again. The illustration above is my mom carrying her bread all the way to me in my tiny hospital room. I was committed, and she was committed to me.

I am so glad to be on the other side of that darkness. Now is the time to recognize the good things in our lives so that they can overshadow the bad ones.

I know in my heart that if I could make it through all of that, we can make it through this. God has a plan and we just have to wait and see how it unfolds.

—SJB