Samantha Jane Buice

Trauma stops time. We are forever held captive, despite our many travels around the sun. Eleven years ago, my life was frozen.

I understand that memories can be distorted, but some of them are never forgotten.

March 6th, 2013

I panicked. I called my best friend and really scared her; she thought that my distress was due to a car accident, or something more tangible. My dad came upstairs to my bedroom and spoke to her through my phone; he told her I was alright. My meds were off and I was manic. My doctor couldn’t be reached. I packed a bag.

They administered shots before I was admitted to the hospital. They took away my stuffed animal, my books, and my Birkenstocks. They told me I could keep my hoodie, but had to cut the strings. I did.

The kitchen was closed when I arrived, and I had not eaten dinner. I tried to take a shower, but was told it wasn’t “shower time.” I did not sleep.

March 7th, 2013

In the morning, I ate breakfast with strangers. I was in pain, as I had a shot of Zyprexa (antipsychotic) moments before. I had refused oral medication.

My sketch book was allowed, as were my colored pencils; that was my outlet. Shrouded in my hoodie, I disappeared in a corner; my imagination granted me solitude and means to escape.

March 14th, 2013

I continued to refuse oral medication, so my condition worsened. The orderlies tasked with administering shots in vulnerable spots on my body became wary of me. At that time, I was hostile, and had steadily honed not only my body, but my words into weapons.

March 14th, 2013: Lunch

The strangers I dined with on that first night quickly became my best friends. There was; however, a problem. I had begun to black out frequently. I was punished often, for offenses I couldn’t recall. Randomly, I stood and spouted terrible things about my fellows. I would then snap out of it and sit down, observing astonished faces. Shortly thereafter, I was carted off to eat lunch alone.

Friday, January 5th, 2024

Throughout the last decade, I have been painting, writing, drawing, coloring, and studying. These activities have aided my healing process. Released from psychiatric facilities across the country, I built a life based on study and creative outlets to cope with persistent issues and side-effects. My illness progressed and I now have trouble with my short-term memory. I tell stories and repeat myself. I strive to push these tales out in order to move on, much to the dismay of those close to me (people who have heard them countless times). The details are hazy.

I hear voices within my mind. They do not approach me audibly. My voices are peaceful and friendly, but there is a darkness inside me I cannot control in my own voice. Sometimes the “blackout voice” emerges, though I mean no harm. It surfaces unbidden. I know a lot about mental illness, especially my own, but I do not know everything. If you run across this voice, please know that I mean no offense, and that I am actively working to harness this obstacle.

–SJB

–SJB

The holidays are happy times for many people. However; they are also a terrible pain for others. Falling on hard times financially. Sickness. Loss of loved ones. It is one of the seasons that takes the most lives. Here is the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, in case you or someone you love is even thinking about this idea. NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) has more information and aid. There is plenty of help when/if you need it.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

988

Imagination lives inside our minds, invisible to the naked eye. We witness the unfolding of our thoughts, alone. Does that make them delusions? Where do we draw that line?

In childhood, art seeped through my pores. I expressed myself with ink, color, and words. Children’s books flowed from my fingers like fluid speech; my typewriter became an extension of myself.

Without imagination, my world would be dark. An environment void of creativity is unfathomable. However, for a twelve-year-old girl struggling with her first signs of depression, my darkness was leading me into that cavern. I knew nothing about delusions and their possible connections to my imagination.

Years later, dancing between depression and mania, I had a psychotic break. When I was twenty-five years old, I checked into a psychiatric hospital, where the “schizo” part of my disorder came out to play. I had hallucinations, nightmares, and delusions. These are events I could never have imagined. I was filled with untruths, convinced they were facts. During this period in my life, I coped with madness by utilizing words and colors. My imagination was my safe haven, the location of my inner peace.

I believe that delusions differ from imagination in many ways, though they share key ingredients. Both are intangible, but delusions cause us to reach an edge and blindly fall into chaos. Imagination is kept secret in our minds, a place only we can visit. We are free to wander safely and dive head first into an abyss of our choosing. Imagination is openly followed. Delusions are intruders.

–SJB

We exist in a world where children swipe to turn a page. They live and breathe for their online presence, and are addicted to social media. Suggestions like “Play outside for a while,” aren’t received with enthusiasm. Trees go unclimbed. Rivers run empty. Nature holds her breath. Virtual reality has conquered the homes of unsuspecting victims, creeping inside with the first computer game. Climbing a tree is difficult. It requires rising from a chair and expending effort for what might be considered a waste of time. I remember the wind in my hair, a feeling of accomplishment, a bird’s-eye view. In my childhood, climbing a tree was one of the most rewarding activities, and emerging from a plunge into cold, white water is so refreshing it feels like a baptism. I feel so fortunate to have grown up in this generation, running through the woods like Pocahontas.

Today, there are commercials on television about aiding the imaginations of children. Our future is in their hands, and some cannot grasp a life full of difficult decisions without help. Imagination creates inventors, scientists, doctors, teachers, and all other useful careers. It is devastating to watch young minds melt behind their screens. Imagination used to come as easily as common sense. Now, it is learned.

Imagination and reality are equally important. I hope that one day, Pocahontas will run through the open minds of children as freely as she does in mine.

–SJB

I have an excellent long term memory. I recall events and moments from my earliest years, details most have forgotten. I remember the scrubs my mom wore when she worked the night shift at the hospital in Virginia, crawling to the front door to greet her in the early morning. I have one of her faded long-sleeved shirts with an image of a musician neither she nor I can identify. I wear that shirt when I don’t want to worry over what to wear. It makes me feel at home, like she’s hugging me. When I wear it, I never feel self-conscious.

There are clips in my mind of birthday parties, quotes between adults, faint smells. My Granmama died when I was eighteen, but I still remember her scent. I visit her when I sleep.

I have cloudy recollections from the day I first met my little sister, and remember my disappointment when I realized that she wasn’t already old enough to play with me.

When I was two years old, I had an imaginary friend (a leaf) called “Mousy.” When I rode on my dad’s shoulders to day care, he would point to rustling leaves and say, “Look, Samantha! There’s Mousy!” to which I answered, “No, Daddy. That’s not him.”

***

Though I have several early memories, my disorder has stolen my short term. Often I forget what I am trying to say mid-sentence. More frequently, I forget what I wanted to say at all. I repeat myself incessantly. Many of my blog articles touch the same thoughts and toss around similar words, but I know that repeating my stories is a coping mechanism, an attempt to banish the pain; it lingers deep inside my mind, barely tangible but never forgotten. Trauma is a visitor who overstays his welcome.

I am grateful for the memories I cherish. They swirl around me on blustery days. Grasping these moments aids me on my life long quest to remember who I am.

–SJB

On this special occasion, we surround ourselves with family and friends, celebrating the light in our lives. We practice gratitude for the blessings bestowed upon us; we appreciate the love that has enveloped us throughout our childhood, the growth and lessons we have learned along the way.

Life’s journey has been kinder to some than to others. This is a time to show love and compassion for the less fortunate. Everyone deserves help and community.

When I was in elementary school, we celebrated Valentine’s Day. We decorated shoe boxes and slit holes in the top to resemble piggy banks. Our parents bought fun cards, we signed them and stuffed them into our friends’ boxes. All of the cards had different slogans, so we shared the more intimate cards with our closer friends. The kids with whom we rarely conversed received the leftovers. Those children were often excluded from our birthday parties, as well. We are all equal, in the past and in the present. Some kids drew the short straws. Today, let us welcome these people to the table. We must spread our love beyond the reach of our arms and be grateful for the hands that we hold.

Remembering the important blessings and people in our lives, let us give thanks, eat until we can barely move, and take really long naps.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving!

–SJB

Awful events take place all over the world, every day. We need someone to blame.

Life is easier for some than for others. There are children with legitimate issues who grow up in broken homes. Some reach adulthood with a sense of right and wrong, but must help themselves because no one else will rise to the occasion. Most have heard, “Life is not fair.”

Life is not fair.

Everywhere, people are suffering without treatment for psychiatric disorders; many cannot afford it and do not have strong support systems. Some are punished for crimes that might have been prevented. Fingers, as well as guns, point in their direction. The media jumps to conclusions about a perpetrator, labeling that individual with a huge stamp of MENTAL ILLNESS on their forehead, and a target on their back. This feeds the stigma. Something must be “wrong” with a person in order to commit a heinous crime. The offender is the scapegoat, a deer in the headlights. This label neatly sums it up. Case closed.

Let us not forget that mental illness is neither a crime or a motive.

“Oh! I knew there was something going on with her. Now it makes sense.” When I published my first book, there were people in my life who responded in this manner. They thought something was “off” about me, and here was the proof. Pouring your heart out to the public is opening yourself; exposing your insides to society. I spent years striving to hide my mental illness, believing I was succeeding. It was surprising to me how many people had already come to that conclusion. Pieces of my puzzle fell into place. I was “figured out.” I know how it feels to be branded.

I pondered whether to hide this part of myself or to share my truth with the world. My story was serving less purpose lurking in the dark corners of my mind. I implore everyone to spread the positive side of this invisible illness; stick up for one another in awkward situations; begin conversations in social settings. We are one body, separate parts. I hope that one day we will come together, and will no longer feel the need to throw stones.

–SJB

Everything in life is temporary. For some, it is difficult to enjoy because it won’t last forever. Others make lemonade so often they forget to take pictures. Life sweeps us off our feet, no matter how we begin.

I am the eldest of four daughters. My parents are still happily married. Mom worries that our childhood wasn’t enough, that it could have been better. I don’t know why she is concerned about that, because my childhood was magical. We all have reflections; many of us have regrets. My life has not been perfect, and memories distort reality over time, but our early years as a family were so special. She needn’t fret.

I was shy and quiet, with good grades and excellent athletic abilities. I was competitive. During Bill Clinton’s presidency, the country’s physical fitness was of utmost importance. We performed mandatory exercises for the Presidential Physical Fitness program, and competed against ourselves for good marks. “Good” wasn’t included in my vocabulary. I strived for “Great.” I ran the fastest mile. I did the most crunches. The coach asked me to demonstrate pull-ups for the boys. When I reached the tenth, Coach said, “Ok, Sam, that’s enough.” With the support from my family, I grew up believing everything was possible. I can still hear my dad’s voice encouraging me to “Run like the wind.”

Creativity has always coursed through my veins. My parents embraced my artistic energy; they understood that elementary school art classes once a week were not enough to fuel my desire to create. Due to their attentiveness, they provided additional private lessons every Thursday afternoon. Thursday was my favorite day of the week when I was in the fourth grade.

As a child, it was frustrating to be an artist. I thought everything was supposed to look “real,” and nothing in my head was transferring to paper. During one of our community art shows, I discovered that art doesn’t necessarily have to fall under Realism. I was drawn to an unusual painting; I was perplexed. Here, the artist was clearly expressing herself in a different way than I had ever known. Colors, shapes, composition, no definitive meaning. Abstract art? I asked the artist many questions, and offered to buy that painting, proof that the world isn’t always real. You can make it your own. She gave it to me. It hangs in my house to this day.

Without my parents and sisters, I would not be the person I am today. I may not have been an athlete, a good student, an artist, a happy child.

My childhood was sacred. I am so grateful to have grown up in a world without social media. I climbed tall trees, swam in frigid water, explored, hiked, camped. I never doubted my parents’ love for me. They did not leave me alone with my struggles, then or ever after. I was built on a strong foundation, and I am tethered to the roots of our family tree. Sometimes I wander, but I never lose sight of home.

–SJB

Thanks to Mom, Dad,

Jessica, Kimberly, and Amy

In 2016, I met a friend, who steadily became much more. I visited him every day at work. There was a coffee shop nearby and it was on the way, so we enjoyed coffee in the morning; most days we spent his lunch hour together. I found him extremely attractive on the outside, and fell madly in love with his insides. Never had I met a person so easy to be with, funny even when he wasn’t trying. I still cannot kiss him without smiling.

My dog, Charlie, was very old. He was blind, but had an excellent sense of direction. Every time I walked Charlie, he led me to Rush. Charlie was hard to please, and did not trust anyone unless they deserved it. He died shortly after meeting Rush, knowing I was in good hands. Over the course of a few weeks with Rush, I knew he was my person; there would never be anyone else. I had finally found him, and he was a keeper.

Rush is compassionate, and cares for the needs of others before his own. He has helped several people throughout his life, when they were down on their luck. He didn’t have to. He could have turned away from those in need. Instead, he offers a hand, an ear, a shoulder, and a heart. He asks for nothing in return.

Rush contains all of the general adjectives describing a wonderful person-generous, intelligent, funny, and so forth-but he is so much more than a string of words. Wherever we are, whatever we do, everything is better in his presence. My love for him rivals the depths of uncharted waters. It is an honor to know him. This day, week, year and evermore, I celebrate the happiness that Rush brings to the world; I celebrate the joy that fills my heart so completely.

Yesterday was my husband’s birthday. I wish him many many more!

I could not ask for a better man in my life (besides my dad).

Happy birthday, Rush!!

–SJB