Samantha Jane Buice

When I was very young, I was playing in the sand at a playground near our house. I was maybe two years old. My parents took me there quite often. I came upon a sandcastle. I didn’t build it, but being two years old, I instinctively wanted to destroy it with my bare feet. So, I did.

There were much bigger kids on the monkey bars looking down at me. They were the sandcastle construction workers. They were, understandably, angry with me. But I didn’t understand. I was also too young to understand the term “stupid,” which they projected down to me from their perch.

When it was time to leave and my dad was fastening me in to my car seat, I said to him, “Daddy, I’m stupid,” to which he replied,” No, you aren’t! Who told you that?” I told him my version of the story and he went back and had a talk with those kids.

Ever since that day, in the back of my mind, there is a brand that won’t go away. STUPID! I have never been able to shake it. No matter if I did well in school or if I’m able to solve problems outside of the structured learning environment; always that critic in my head creeps to the surface. Especially when I come upon a problem I can’t fix, or a question I can’t answer.

Words have a lot of power. Even more than we know. On a playground thirty years ago, a few kids called me stupid and it stuck. Everyone should know the potential damage that their words can produce. Words have the power to destroy and to create. We decide what comes out of our mouths and we have the power to change lives with our voices.

Let your voice be heard, and let your words be kind. Change the world one person at a time and we could reduce the hate and the societal stigma that surrounds the mentally ill, the less fortunate, the races and the sexes different from our own. Create positive change.

—SJB

I speak often of my time in the hospital, which was a fate worse than death. I don’t know why I am still talking about it. It was such a long time ago, and so much has happened since. I suppose people grieve in different ways. I wrote a book, and I continue to write an article each week about my experience with mental illness, but I have made happier memories since those six months of pure hell.

It is really hard to move on when you have been exposed to so much trauma, but I am recovering. I now recognize my parents. I can sit still long enough to read a book. I have built social skills, and made a few friends. I have traveled. I got engaged! I have not been manic in a very long time. When I get depressed it is with reason. I wish I could say I am a better listener, but I am working on that. I am stable, and my life is happy. It took me a long time to get here.

My life lately, as I’m sure most everyone can relate to, has been drastically different from “normal” since this pandemic. I have gotten a little depressed and anxious on some days and have definitely suffered my share of cabin fever. But my life right now has many happy aspects to it as well. I am spending more time with my dog, Logan, every day. My future husband has been unemployed, so he is home. I am enjoying my time with him. I will miss him quite a lot whenever he is able to go back to work, though I hope that day is coming soon.

We are getting married, so that is something to look forward to. I don’t know when it will be safe for our families to gather safely in a church in order for this to happen, but I look forward to it and it gives me hope that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

I do miss going on vacation and going about daily life the way we previously did; but right now, I am enjoying being stable, relatively happy, and hopeful.

I like to remember events in my past fondly, knowing that those days are over, but being filled with joy that they happened.

I am enjoying some good books, going for drives in the car without destinations, and being outside in the sunshine whenever possible. Rush and I have started cooking together and building new happy memories.

I am sick to death of television. As of late, I have been working out while I watch tv so that I feel productive instead of lazy; so that my brain doesn’t turn to mush.

I have been illustrating, sketching, and being creative.

I guess I just wanted to let you all know that I am living outside of the “box” now, no matter how much I talk about it. It feels like coming back from the dead.

I hope everyone is finding ways to stay sane right now. I want you all to know that writing these articles helps keep me that way. So, thank you for reading. Stay safe!

—SJB

I have not ever been truly alone, even when it felt like my world was crashing down around me. There are people in my life who love me and make it known; not only with their words, but with their kind acts.

I am blessed with two happily married parents, three sisters, and have acquired three brothers. Whenever I call one of my sisters, and she cannot talk in that moment, she texts me to ask, “Are you okay?” because if I wasn’t, she would drop whatever she was doing in order to help me. It is moving to know that I am loved so deeply.

My life has definitely not been perfect, and I have not walked the path I would have chosen as a younger person starting out. But I am overcoming obstacles which seemed impossible at one point in my life.

I have forged a new path as I travel on; knowing that every decision I make can change my world, and that much of my life is without my control. I have finally achieved many of my goals in a round-about way. I suppose that maybe the path is a loop with several forks in the road. Either way you go, you end up where you are meant to be. Maybe.

I think that the people in our lives make our life worth living. Traveling the path of life, you acquire people along the road, no matter which way you turn at the fork. I have been blessed with a great support system. Family with whom I have the honor of sharing life.

Not everyone is so lucky, and I hate that. I have friends who struggle with mental illness and poverty. I wish the world was fair and that all doctors could help people with their specific needs, but there aren’t enough good ones out there, and not many that are affordable. All I can do is support the friends and people I meet in every way I can. Support is so important. Many people are in distress. Let us help those we are capable of helping, spread the message of hope, and build bonds of love in a world filled with hardened hearts.

—SJB

Sometimes I can still feel the shots in my rear end, years later. I had felt so violated, and pain memories run deep.

I tried to face the world without medications, after years of being stable on the drugs I had been prescribed. In the hospital, refusing medication granted you a shot in the butt and a good long nap in an uncomfortable chair surrounded by troubled strangers.

My psychiatrist at the time was negligent; one of those doctors who doesn’t genuinely care about your health, but just wants to write your prescriptions and watch you walk away.

He went on vacation after changing my meds in a drastic manner. I couldn’t reach him when I needed him most. He was too far away to care, and when I was in the hospital, he never visited even after his vacation.

I was experiencing all of the symptoms of mania. I had no appetite. I did not sleep, unless I was sedated. I talked constantly. My handwriting was so sloppy it couldn’t be deciphered. My judgment was flawed. I had a higher sense of confidence. I was hyper sexual. I had SO much energy.

I kept a sketchbook and put my creativity to great use, which kept me busy. My manic energy was pent up and I couldn’t even go outside. There was no exercise regimen. I had extreme cases of cabin fever.

I could not concentrate well enough to read. I prayed a lot. I went to group therapy, which helped immensely. I made a lot of new friends. It is easy to make friends when you are stuck in a room with them all day and prohibited from returning to your bedroom.

Mania escalated to psychosis quickly, due to refusing medication. I was lost for a very long time. My strength ultimately came from those who love me. Staying alive and escaping the hospital became a goal I needed to reach in order to return to them. I fought for them. Knowing they were waiting and hurting on the other side of those walls gave me courage and saved my life.

I know from experience that you can live with mania without drugs, but it will suck the life out of you. I needed help, and I know that I will be taking medication for the rest of my life to keep it at bay. There is no shame in getting help when you need it. Have courage. Take control of your life. Don’t let Berman win.

—SJB

*Berman is mental illness personified.

Once, there was a little girl named Sam. I was not quite a teenager, so some of my feelings were probably due to hormones in the early stages of puberty. But I was sad, quite frequently.

I had a wonderful life. I had two parents who were happily married and argued infrequently. I had beautiful sisters, inside and out. My whole family loved me. My childhood was coveted by the children who witnessed the bond my family has; a bond so powerful it could not be found elsewhere. I had no apparent reason to be sad. But sometimes I was miserable.

I cried myself to sleep each night, drifting off to my favorite CD, believing I could not be heard weeping. But every night, there was a soft knock on the door and a sweet little voice asking me if I was okay. I was not. But there was nothing that sweet little girl at my door could do to help me. Or so I thought.

I made good grades; I had friends, and on the outside I seemed like a perfectly normal twelve year old girl. Except for the fact that I did not often smile. That didn’t go unnoticed by my teachers or my parents. My little sister, Jessica, noticed this before anyone else, because she is my best friend, and we spent the most time together.

I once thought that my little sister could not help me with my pain. I was most certainly wrong. Jessica cheered me up when we played with dolls, climbed trees, ran together through the woods, and invented new games. Jessica not only made me smile. She made me laugh.

Jessica was also a very good listener. I could not explain the sadness inside me, and at the time no one was equipped to really do anything about it. But trying to explain it, and having someone to share the pain with worked wonders.

Jessica brought happiness to me in my time of great need, sharing precious moments and beginning my healing. Jessica’s love and devotion sent me out of my dark place and began steering me into the light. There was no longer a shortage of smiles.

Jessica has since grown up and launched a career helping people with similar problems like my own. She is one of my strongest, bravest, kindest heroes. I am so blessed to have Jessica in my life.

—SJB

*Depression cannot be cured, but it can be treated. The best way to speed up that process is to heighten the presence of endorphins in your brain. Laughing can make that happen. One person cannot be held responsible for curing another of her illness, but it certainly helps to feel understood and to have someone lend an ear. A small gesture can go a long way. A little person can make a big difference.

*If you read my book, you know that I have personified mental illness, and his name is Berman. If you didn’t read it, this is relevant information for the following article. But that is all you need to know to make sense of this character.

I was in my yard today, thinking about how my inside dog relies on me to take him outside. He can’t go out without me. I have the power to keep him inside until it’s convenient for me (not that I ever do that, of course). I had that thought and for less than a minute I wondered what that must feel like.

Then, I abruptly remembered that I have been in the same position before. The hospitals in which I was kept allowed patients to go outside for ten minute intervals very few times a day, but only if they smoked or had been on their best behavior. I want you to know that my family had no idea about this and had little control over what happened inside those walls.

In one of the hospitals I was locked in a tiny room by myself, guarded by two large men so I couldn’t get out.

I didn’t see the sun but once in the few months I stayed in that hospital. A few months in a room alone with your thoughts and fears feels like an eternity.

I know what it feels like not just to be denied access from the sun, but also to be locked in a “cage” for longer than I care to remember.

I plotted my escape every minute of the day, and several times outwitted the guards and forcibly let myself out, once even tearing the sleeve off one of the guards’ uniforms.

But by escaping that cage, I was reminded of the larger one I wouldn’t escape, unless by some miracle I was able to “behave.”

Asking a woman having a psychotic episode to behave and then punishing her for not cooperating by keeping her inside is unjust and inhumane.

Sunlight has healing powers. I just had to learn how to be powerful without them. I befriended myself when there was no one else. I became well acquainted with her on a deeper level than many people ever reach with themselves. Ultimately, that is where I gained my strength.

The “cage” was so small, and Berman took up most of the room. When I found my strength and continued to fight, he grew smaller with time. Then, he really stood no chance of defeating me.

My advice to you is to befriend yourself so that Berman will shrink into the background of your life, and you can remember who you are without him. Love yourself. Take care of yourself. Never let Berman lead.

Be strong. Stand tall. Join the conversation that will help you cope with your emotions and assist your loved ones. You are not alone. Carry that message in your heart, and spread it wherever you go, to everyone who needs to hear it.

—SJB

I welcome comments, questions, concerns, stories, and book reviews. Let’s start talking!

I grew up watching beloved animated movies and believing in fairy tales, even when childhood was very much in the past. For a few months, I used my knowledge of these stories to make sense of my life and my situation.

I inhabited several hospitals in 2013, and made lots of friends. Friends I will never see again, most of whose names I never knew and will never remember. Psychosis will do that to your mind. Erase memories of past events, acquaintances, friends.

I tagged people with fairy tale nicknames. There was a girl with a red hoodie sweatshirt. She was red riding hood. I called her “Lil’ Red.” My own hoodie was gray, and she called me “Lil’ Gray.” There was a nurse I remember as the “Blue Fairy.” A friend named “Cinderella” had jumped out of a moving car and landed herself in this hospital with me because she was suicidal.

Of course I wouldn’t reveal this information if I remembered the woman’s real name. But giving these people fairy tale names did help me to remember their real names, and as I write this article, this very moment, I remember the name of the nurse, and I remember Cinderella’s name as well. We used to color together. We shared secrets. We told stories. We kept each other company. And I felt less alone when I was around all of these friends. Even though it was really great news when they got released, it made me a little bit more lonely each time.

At the time, and for years to come, my dark side came out in the form of a Big Bad Wolf I call “Shadow.” He was inside my head, driving me ever closer to insanity.

I couldn’t sleep. I wrestled with Shadow all night. I would wake at the mandatory hour of six in the morning, after very few hours of sleep, with a bed clearly showing signs of a struggle. I fought that wolf and tried not to let him take over. It was extremely difficult.

That is why I was so afraid when he showed himself once more after my release. I didn’t want to go back to that place inside myself; the place I had tried so hard to escape.

Eventually, I did escape. But I can’t run anymore without Shadow. So I don’t run anymore. Mental illness has taken so much from me. I will not pretend that I have fully recovered from my trauma and that everything in my life now is perfect. I still struggle every day with depression and anxiety, mania and delusions. Though there is no cure for mental illness, I do the best I can to tread water and most of the time I float. All of the time, I breathe.

Fairy tales may not be true and stories don’t always have happy endings, but it comforts me to tell my tales in a way that is easier to swallow than the darkness. I am stable. I am happy. And I am not alone. I don’t think any fairy tale can compete with that.

—SJB

In this time of turmoil, I look to the memories of my past in order to feel a bit of solace. I remember my happy childhood; the events and decisions that led me to be the person I am today. I think fondly of my parents who love me and accept me for exactly who I am. I greatly appreciate the support I receive from my sisters and my brothers, my soon to be husband, my grandparents, and all the loved ones who have walked this path with me.

Every night, when I am having trouble falling asleep, I think of my happiest memories and I fall into a deep sleep with those thoughts on my mind and in my heart.

I think about times when I could hug my parents and those close to me. There was a time when I thought this virus was temporary and that we wouldn’t need masks. I thought it was no big deal, until it was. It is a nightmare I wish every morning I could wake from.

I am grateful for how much time I have gotten to spend with my grandma, Sandy. When I was sixteen, she came into my life and we became fast friends. She didn’t have any grandchildren, and she was so cool and fun! I wanted so badly to be her granddaughter. So I adopted her. She happened to live around the corner from me, marking the halfway point of my daily jogs. I would often stop to visit and grab a drink of water, then end up not finishing my run and visiting until it got dark. My granddad would drive me home.

We have spent years together; not just holidays, but regular visits during the week and lots of time throughout summer vacations. My granddad, Ernie, always made sure we had all the ingredients for my coffee ice cream sundae. If we didn’t, he would make a quick trip to the grocery store and pick up the necessary items.

It took me five years to finish college, and Sandy and my mom were ecstatic (but not as glad as I was) when I graduated, as it appeared that I never would. It was a very difficult time for me and it really was a miracle. It turns out that a “D” is a passing grade! They supported me throughout the struggle of keeping my head above water; finding my way out of college and then my way into the world. God listens to Sandy’s prayers!

Sandy experienced many an introduction to guys in my life over the years, and we are so very excited that I have finally found the right one. She must have been praying about that too. I know I was!

Sandy, Ernie and I traveled a few times, once to New York and another to Disney World.

They moved to Florida and I moved to a small town farther up north in Georgia. I don’t see her as often, but I still talk with and email Sandy frequently.

I am so grateful for our time together. I grew up knowing this amazing person and loving her and learning from her. She has a really big heart and is so generous and kind to everyone. During this tough time for the world, I hold on tight to the people I love, even though I can’t touch them. I have much to be grateful for. Today and always, I am grateful for Sandy and the huge contribution she makes in my life.

—SJB

“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