One night, when I was not quite two-years-old, my parents went to the theatre to see the new Batman flick, starring Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson. They left me in the care of my uncle. During these few moments-before the movie had ended-I tripped over a root as I ran eagerly to the playground. I knocked out half of one front tooth. There were no cell phones, so my uncle contacted the theatre in search of my parents. The aisle attendant waved a flashlight, calling for, “Sam Buice.” They took the call, and abandoned the movie.
My parents watched painstakingly as I suffered the extraction of the remaining tooth. The tooth did not grow back until I was in the third grade.
Somehow, I connected “Batman” to that experience. Batman was my hero that day. Days later, my dad asked me playfully, “Who loves you?” to which I replied enthusiastically, “Batman!” He was expecting to hear, “YOU!” Years passed, and we deduced that Dad was “Batman.”
Happy Father’s Day to my Batman!
–SJB
~~~
My husband and I dated for a few years before we got married. During that time, we adopted a puppy. I am incapable of having children with two legs and sans tails. This dog is our kid. Rush is the father of “Logan.” He plays the part marvelously. Today and every day, I am grateful for our marriage, and for the pawther of my furry baby.
When I was in the eighth grade, my fellow students and I were assigned a basic task. What are your dreams for the future?
In a job interview, you are asked, “What are your goals? Where do you see yourself in five years?” The answer is complicated. The potential employers want to know how invested you are in this position. Often, these questions are met with blank stares and wandering eyes. Sometimes we are not prepared for what comes next. As an eighth grader, I was a dreamer. My answer was broad. “I want to achieve greatness but not fame. I hope to write something people want to read.” The perimeters for this dream were flexible. What do people want to read? How do you achieve greatness without fame?
I have discovered that many people are interested in the lives of others, especially when their stories contain juicy gossip. Writers are often encouraged to “write what they know.” What better way to spread gossip than to tell the world your secrets? In my experience, the truth is not always well received. When the unknown is exposed, there are those who are quick to judge your book by its cover. Some are reluctant to open the book and continue to read, whereas others eat those pages like a dog with homework.
My family moved to Savannah, Georgia when I was halfway through my eighth grade school year. During that transition, I developed depression. I felt physically ill, but there was an additional attribute I didn’t recognize. My pediatrician was confused. No one knew how to solve this mystery.
Time in a new school crushed me for a while. I stayed at home some days, and my mom helped me to stay on track with assignments so I didn’t fall behind. The curriculum was much more advanced in Savannah than the studies I had left behind. It was overwhelming.
When I reached high school, I fell into a different phase of chaos: mania. I was lost and thought this was my new normal, until my dad took me to a psychiatrist. I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 Disorder. I was relieved to have a name and a treatment plan, but I was spilling my guts to anyone who would listen; I had no filter, so most people stayed out of my way. I trusted and told the wrong people my “secret,” and they spread it around. I was ostracized. The other students treated me like I was “crazy.” The next year, I transferred to a different school to start over. I strived to keep my secret hidden.
How did I achieve greatness without fame? Years later, I trudged through Hell and back when I was committed to several different mental health facilities across the country. My secret was safe. I wasn’t famous; few people knew where I was. It was as if I fell into a deep, dark hole grasping in vain to grip the rope as I descended. After much determination, medication and experience, I climbed out of that hole and greatness washed over me.
Many believe that greatness is equal to fame; power is related to money and greed. Success is related to greatness and I certainly did not achieve it on my own. My family and friends held me close and lengthened the rope.
Years passed, and I realized that my secret could help countless others feel less alone. I shared my story with everyone who listened and the reluctance to share my secret has vanished.
I have obtained greatness without fame, and hopefully shed light with healing words. Sometimes, overcoming mountains and pushing through strong winds, dreams are realized.
My dad is one of the kindest people I know. He is helpful and turns no one away, thoughtful of others’ feelings. Dad lends an ear, a hand, a shoulder, and a heart for the people he cares about, and for those less fortunate than himself. He loves his family deeply and unconditionally. I have never doubted his love. It is written all over his face and reflected in his deeds. The path is clear and bright when he leads the way. He is not only an exceptional dad, but an outstanding person. Many lives have been touched.
Dad is an ever present figure in my life, and I realize how lucky I am to have such a great relationship with my father. We are close friends. When I am in trouble, no matter how big or small the issue, he is right by my side. Dad casts his light in my life, so I am not afraid of the dark. My life began when he squeezed my tiny hand, and I hold his hand now and forever. Happy birthday, to the roots of my family tree!
Depression is a close friend of mine. Now, it is only an occasional visitor due to medication, therapy, and family support. When it occurs (for me), I have absolutely no desire to get out of bed and live an adult life. It causes lethargy, physical aching, low mood. Watch out! I am irritable and push others away instead of holding them close. The Little Mermaid wanted to be where the people are, but when I am feeling so low, I want to be where the people aren’t. I have so little energy that a smile (even a fake one) is almost impossible to conjure. While depression is an unwelcome state of mind, it is closely followed by anxiety. I am attached to that fishing line, striving in vain to free myself from the pull of the rod.
I am anxious more often than depressed or manic. Through my own experience, I have discovered helpful tips for coping with these feelings. You are not alone in your boat, though these waves crash onto your deck.
Helpful TipsFor Depression and Anxiety:
*Go outside. Touch the ground. Sit on the grass and breathe slowly and deeply.
*Garden. Get muddy on purpose.
*Swim. Hold your hand under the sink faucet. Let the water ground you.
*Purchase a weighted blanket. Before you buy one, research. Measure the dimensions and the weight in proportion to your size and weight. When you are anxious and cannot fall asleep, cover yourself with the blanket. Sleep underneath it if you feel the need (I do). A cheaper option is to pile heavy objects on your chest, such as books to weigh you down. It will bring momentary peace during a difficult time.
*Lay a stuffed animal or soft object such as a pillow, on your chest and stroke it slowly. The light weight and sense of touch stimulate calm feelings. I have a large plush bat. I situate its wings across my chest like a hug, then pet the fur on its back. Try lounging, not even leaving the bedroom while performing this task.
*Drink more water and less coffee (easier said than done).
*Force yourself out of bed and go for a short/long walk outside. This activity is the last you want to experience when you are feeling low, but the fresh air, sunshine, and exercise produce endorphins. Endorphins lead to high energy and an abundance of serotonin in your brain, inspiring happiness.
*Resist triggers whenever possible. These are typically outside forces which cause us to fall into despair. When I experienced my first bout with depression, I was in bed for several days eating nothing and drinking solely apple juice. I can no longer drink the juice without negative emotions. When I was hospitalized I ate oatmeal with butter and brown sugar every morning at breakfast. Having left that horrible event in my past, I still cannot eat oatmeal without dragging myself back to a cell. There are songs and books that trigger me as well. Best to stay away from these memory induced stimuli.
*Spend time with animals. Consider training an emotional support dog.
*Hugs are encouraged.
*Talk therapy has been helpful for me. Many people call this “visiting the shrink,” and it has a negative connotation. Speaking to a person about how you feel and what happens in your life, especially a person who legally cannot voice your concerns to anyone else, can be beneficial. If you are opposed to this method or cannot feasibly take part in this relationship, find someone you know you can trust. Pain is a huge burden to keep inside. Talking about your personal issues can be relieving. One piece of advice from my therapist stands out. For years I thought that not being “in the mood” meant being lazy and procrastinating. She assured me that with a mood disorder, being “in or out of the mood” is natural.
*If you have no energy or drive to take a shower, and definitely no desire to wash your hair, there is this great product called dry shampoo. Stock up!
*Dance like no one is watching when no one is watching. It is stress-relieving to be open and honest with yourself. You have nothing to hide, but I am such a terrible dancer, that I do make sure no one is watching before I crank up my tunes. I feel silly, but that’s part of my process.
I hope these tips are helpful. If you have any questions, I am open to answer them as I am able. Email me privately if you do not wish to comment. I am here for you and want to clarify that you are not alone in this struggle. My email address is listed on my site, but in case you do not wish to search for it:
Years ago, a little girl said to her mother that she would “Run and run and run, and never stop.” So I ran that day, the next, and almost every day after; but one day, I was forced to stop.
Growing up, my favorite activity was running. In my earliest moments, it seems I ran before I walked. Running was breathing. When I reached elementary school, none of the other children would race me across the football field at recess because they knew they would fail. I am exceedingly competitive, so this was a bit of a disappointment. Running came naturally to me; it was my special gift and I treasured it. I could never imagine the end, but years later the Sandman caught up to me.
Soccer was popular in middle school, so I played the midfield where I covered the most ground. In my sophomore year of high school, upon discovering that running was a competitive sport, I eagerly joined the cross country team. In my first season, I was the fastest team member. After basking in the glory of all my races won, my life turned upside down.
In June of 2004, I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 Disorder. Most of the days that followed were full of questions, lethargy, weight gain, medication combinations, side-effects, and great disappointment. I could run, but all I wanted to do was sleep. I suffered great pain watching other girls run faster than me. I was slow, one of the slowest. My coach was supportive and encouraging. He knew I would make a come-back, though I had significant doubt. The Sandman kept my eyes closed and my limbs heavy.
The following summer, I attended a running camp where I regained my strength. Despite my obstacles, it seemed I was back on track. I was captain of the cross country team that year; just as my coach had been certain, I was the fastest girl again. Could this runner’s high last forever?
No.
I developed a rare side-effect called “ocular gyro crisis.” It was extremely difficult to explain, so it continued much further without definition. I lost control of my eyes. I could not focus on the path in front of me. My eyes continued to travel up, no matter how hard I tried to focus. My coach suggested I drink more Gatorade. When I was able to voice this concern with the appropriate language, my psychiatrist recognized this condition; it was rare, and he had never seen a case. He contacted a neurologist, who determined that this was an accurate diagnosis. He had never seen a case himself. The neurologist reached out to a specialist in eye movement, who confirmed and had only seen nine cases in his whole career. Fortunately, there was treatment available, though there was no cure. This phenomenon occurred most frequently when I was running.
In my senior year, our team achieved the opportunity to race at the regional cross country meet in Jekyll Island. Just before the finish line, when I was sure to win second place, my eyes betrayed me and a member of my own team passed me and took second position. This is still one of my biggest regrets, though I was without control of the situation. This memory haunts me.
I can no longer run without an ocular gyro crisis, knee pain, or voices in my head. My mental illness failed that little girl.
I ran and ran and ran, but one day I had to stop.
Now, my dad drags me to the gym, where I ride the stationary bike like it’s going out of style. I feel my heart rate rise and my face fill with color. I recognize the adrenaline rush and push myself to the point where pain becomes pleasure. While I ride the bike, I think about that little girl inside me, knowing she is proud.
Once Upon a Time…a two-year-old girl in a car seat watched as a logging truck passed by her window. Around her pacifier, she said,
“Put those trees back, right now!”
Several weeks ago, I was startled on my morning walk. I reached the top of a familiar hill and discovered that the trees along this side of the trail had been murdered. They were “in the way” of a new housing development. I had been harboring the delusion that when I surmounted this hill, the trees provided a much needed breath of fresh air. Their oxygen encouraged me to push forward, also affording me a bit of shade before carrying on. I realize this was a delusion, but the happiness was delicious. Upon my arrival that morning, I burst into tears.
We live in a world we take for granted. Humans have ravaged our natural resources and produced too many mouths to feed. Trees provide an abundance of protection, solace, and oxygen. It seems their numbers are depleting. Trees are habitats for wild creatures and playgrounds for imaginative children. Today, many children are without imaginations and believe that others will solve their problems. There are computers, phones, and tablets. Parents are encouraged to limit “screen time.” When I was younger, limited “screen time” meant limited television episodes of Scooby Doo and Power Rangers. My sisters and I ran through the woods in our childhood. We played in mud, climbed trees, swam in cold rivers. Structures were built out of large tree branches. Now, pieces of wood derived from trees are built into commercial properties and private residences on land that once inhabited natural trees.
Water is for sale in plastic bottles that pollute the oceans, joining other garbage that robs many sea creatures of their oxygen. We are so selfish. One day, people will wake up from the denial of the earth’s demise and will have to purchase oxygen. Back-up plans are merely day dreams.
Everyone is at fault. Not a soul is exempt of this guilt. Hands should be busy. Many believe that they can do nothing to help. If everyone deems this a reality, there will be no change.
We must heed the words of Margaret Mead:
“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”
One person creates a ripple. Imagine if we all decided to work together. We could all breathe deeply.
Recently, I witnessed a theater production that conspicuously mocked the princesses I have known and loved since childhood. It was a roast, and for the most part, it was hysterical. I enjoyed almost every scene. The show was about the unrealistic “once upon a times” and the women who were overshadowed by knights in shining armor. These women were not “happily ever after,” and in this portrayal, they voiced their truths. The show was a musical; when my sister took the stage, tears brimmed my eyes. She was so beautiful and her voice was captivating. Each princess had a solo act. Obviously, she was my favorite princess of all time. She played Pocahontas.
For many years, Pocahontas was not recognized as a “princess,” though she was the daughter of the chief. She did not wear ball gowns. Her riches were found in the earth, when land was not for sale and people did not buy flowers or water. She did not fit the “perfect,” “lady-like” mold. Those traits are some of the reasons why I love her the most. She didn’t try to be anyone she wasn’t. Though she was a native to this country (and we are all immigrants), her face was not commercially plastered everywhere until society deemed her “technically” worthy of the princess title; she joined the club of animated plastic dolls on the shelves of little girl’s all over the world, a beloved movie star.
The character of “Belle” entered the stage being pushed in a wheelchair by the kind of orderlies I will never forget. She was wheeled in wearing a straight jacket. My jaw dropped. I retreated to the lobby-followed by my husband-and sat on the floor while he watched and waited with me until that part was over. I could not believe my ears as the crowd laughed and made light of a situation I will never find humorous. Unless you have worn a straight jacket yourself and been pushed around by nurses you loath, you cannot know the anger and loss of control you experience when your body no longer belongs to you. I understand that people are afraid of the unknown, and may be confused about psychiatric disorders. I am aware of the stigma, and feeling like an outcast, but humor? This is blatant disregard for someone else’s serious pain. It is disrespectful, and disgusts me. I will never laugh about a person in so much trouble. How is this funny?
According to the accounts I am familiar with, Belle and Pocahontas share the independence the other princesses do not experience. They created their own “happily ever afters,” without waiting for the strings attached to a man. These women chased their own dreams and saved the lives of those they cared about. They were not damsels in distress, but the heroes.
The agenda for this event was to recognize women as strong, capable and powerful. We do not need a prince, though we are free to want one. We are no longer damsels in distress. I understand and believe this message with my whole heart, though admittedly I prefer a happy ending with an uninterrupted kiss that I wait for an hour to witness (preceded by several frustrating interrupted ones).
It is unfair to label anyone as a permanent damsel in distress. Everyone experiences distress. Though damsels are sometimes in trouble, it doesn’t mean they need someone to rescue them. We are capable of freeing ourselves. Join me in removing your straight jacket.
Everyone experiences guilt. Oft times, blame is misplaced. It is natural when we are hurting to harbor ill will toward a tangible culprit. In some cases, however, the object of our frustrations is invisible. Psychiatric disorders can uproot lives, yet we cannot see them with our eyes. This causes confusion, doubt, and misunderstanding. In which direction should we point our fingers?
Parents and loved ones of those suffering with mental illness are also in pain. There are many stages of this illness, some more crippling than others, so how can the people in our lives help us?
First, you must understand that this is not your fault. These cases are not due to the “sins of the father.” We are not apples that fall too close to the tree, in every sense. I believe we dance off the tree in our own directions, to find our own way. It is necessary for the trees to grow with us. Support is key. Our illnesses do not define us, and you remind us of that every day. We are not broken, though it certainly feels that way sometimes. Knowing you are in our lives gives us energy to continue dancing. Listen, guide, but do not force.
Life is filled with trauma from which you cannot protect us. Life is not fair. Not to anyone. We can all stare into the faces of our worst fears; they do not always disappear, though sometimes confronting our darkest moments can lead us into the light. Lend us your ears, hands, shoulders, and hearts. Banish thoughts of blame and guilt, as we look to you for solidity. We may fight with you, get angry, try to push you away. Understand that we appreciate you and this is not always reflected in our behavior. Love is the most powerful gift you can bestow. We need you, though we may be unable to ask for your help. At times you will feel you are failing. This is not the truth, and no one is perfect. Thank you for your patience.
Let us all leave our guilt in the past and move forward together, one step at a time.
There are billions of shoes in this world. Different sizes, shapes, colors. Shoes are designed for every day wear, special occasions, sports, and weather. Some shoes have matches, much to the dismay of children who can’t decide which pair to wear and wish to settle for both. Shoes can be uncomfortable and sometimes we are forced to wear them even while we scream the entire time they are donned, the socks bunched up at the toe. They can put us in a bad mood. Favorite shoes can lift our spirits and brighten our day. There are those of us who prefer not to wear shoes at all.
Once, there was a little girl and a pair of shoes so glamorous that even though they did not fit right away, she waited patiently with the hope that one day they would. At the age of four, she anticipated the day when her feet could fill a Women’s Size 9. Tucked under an arm, the shoes snoozed while she slumbered.
She aged ever so slowly. She wore other shoes. She had favorites, but she coveted this particular pair. She tried them on every day when she woke up, hoping for change. “One day, any day now,” she thought. She turned five. She turned six. Her feet grew, but somehow they were never the perfect size.When she was in the fifth grade, her feet stopped growing.
The shoes never did fit this little Women’s Size 7 “Cinderella.” It was disappointing to discover that all of this waiting had been in vain. “How could these heels tease me for so many years?” “Maybe they were not meant to be mine.” “Am I an evil stepsister, attempting to shove my feet into an unattainable dream?” Is it worth achieving success if you cut off your toes in order to fit into a life not suited for you?
There are many paths in life, many shoes to choose. We wear the shoes we are given until we grow out of them. Sometimes we don’t grow into the pair of shoes we dream of, but we can run along the path barefoot while we chase another.
