Samantha Jane Buice

I have deduced that every emotional support animal needs an emotional support person.

When I was eighteen, my great grandmother went into assisted living. She had a chihuahua named Charlie. She could not take him with her, so she held interviews. No one was worthy. “Meme” called my mom. She explained the situation. Mom told her that if no one claimed him, he could come and live with us. Tears streaming down her face, she agreed. We flew Charlie home from Louisiana to Georgia.

Chihuahuas are “one man” dogs. They choose one person and love that person with all their heart, hating everyone else. We never knew how old he was, but he was feisty! I desperately wanted to be Charlie’s person. He slept with me; I fed him from my hand; it was obvious to him exactly how much I cared. Inevitably, I was Charlie’s “one woman.”

Charlie and I developed a strong bond. When I left for college, he had to stay home. Reappearing after a good bit of time, he behaved as if I had died and come back to him. He was very protective. Charlie made it clear when he did not approve of a boyfriend. He had a least favorite. Once, he peed in his shoe. Another incident occurred when I went for a walk with this boyfriend. We had barely made it across the street when Charlie ran straight through the invisible fence-despite the shock collar-and caught up to us. Needless to say, that walk was over.

In 2013, I was committed to a hospital in Savannah. My absence worried Charlie. I was gone longer than usual. He started to die. A therapist inside the hospital instructed me to sit down and take a Klonopin. With a foreboding tone, she said, “I need to talk to you about Charlie.” Immediately, despite the drugs, I stood; I screamed. I think my heart may have stopped. She told me that Charlie was very sick, and needed a blood transfusion. He had a 3% chance of survival. Then she said that they were going to do something the hospital had never done before.

One of my best friends in that hospital called himself “Prince Jesus.” He formed a circle in the courtyard and we began to pray for Serenity. We prayed for Charlie. We prayed for me.

The therapist opened the back gate to the courtyard and my mom and sister stepped in, carrying a sickly thin Charlie. I gathered him in my arms, wrapped him in my sweatshirt, and held him in my favorite spot, under pink flowers. I cried; I prayed; and he could see that I was alive. We brought hope to each other. Charlie survived the transfusion and lived for three more years! We spent them together.

Toward the end of Charlie’s life, he developed blindness. He could not see Rush, my friend at the time, but he led me to his gallery every day. Charlie knew I was in good hands before he joined the angels. Rush became my boyfriend, and then my husband.

Though Charlie was not a trained emotional support dog, that is what he was for me. I believe I was his emotional support person. We were a team. I am a bit jealous that he is sitting on “Meme’s” lap, while he waits for me.

–SJB

Some people think their dad is the best. They are foolishly mistaken. My dad is the best dad who ever walked this earth. You know those bumper stickers that boast of honor students, their parents proud beyond belief? I am a grateful daughter and wish the world to know this fact, despite the lack of a similar bumper sticker.

My dad was a father first, and a Father second; he is an Episcopal priest. Juggling a family and seminary in Virginia was no cake walk, I’m sure, but my mom and dad thrived. Dad had a good head on his shoulders, and often, a two-year-old. I used to ride to daycare via that mode of transportation. He picked me up at lunch time and we ate in the seminary cafeteria. I remember that he allowed me to drink orange soda, but to keep it a secret from Mom. She kept me from sugar, and now I thank her.

My father is one of the kindest people in my life, and humble beyond belief.

A few examples include:

When we lived in Savannah, there was a homeless community living under a bridge. Dad discovered these individuals, and regularly brought them necessities. A few times, we all grilled ribs and cooked out together.

One unbearably hot summer day, Dad and I were in the Jeep with a large package of bottled water. Without hesitation, at a stop light, Dad passed the water out to some construction workers in the heat.

My father has an enormous heart. Once, I witnessed a memorable phone conversation. Dad had a single question to ask, so he called a certain company to solve his problem. The associate kept him on the phone for more than a few minutes, without addressing the issue. So many of us would have hung up, but Dad was patient and valued that man’s time as much as his own.

My dad is an excellent listener. He is a great source of comfort for many people, and has a peaceful presence. Our family has a special bond I have not seen elsewhere. My three sisters and I grew up in a house with two parents. We solved problems with words, not violence or passive aggressive behavior. My dad taught me how to love, how to draw, how to ride a bike…how to be myself without holding back. Today, and every day, I thank God for giving me an exceptional father and a lifelong friend.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

–Samantha

I am happy to announce that I am currently working toward publishing my third book!

This book is a relatively true story about my relationship with voices. Mental illness will, once again, be depicted in fairy tale fashion. I am looking forward to shaking things up a bit!

I recently finished the illustrations. It will be a while before this comes to fruition, but I am very excited and thought you all might want to know! Thank you for being loyal readers and supportive of my journey to help make a difference.

Stay tuned…

–SJB

**For those who are unaware, Mother’s Day is this upcoming Sunday.

Mother’s Day is a reminder of how much we appreciate our moms, as well as our own fruit. We acknowledge the women who brought us into this world, and cherish the women who kept us alive to see this day.

Today, I celebrate my fifth Mother’s day with Logan, and share this special day with his “Aunt Emily,” and twin sister, Juniper. Fur babies are kids too! In my opinion, the best kind.

“Shout out” to my cousin, Courtney, who recently gave birth to a baby girl, who has a really cool big brother.

I hope you all have a beautiful day!

–SJB

We used to climb trees.

Why are the people in this nation slaves to little pieces of worn, green paper?

Greed, power, selfishness?

A lack of compassion?

Where is the human connection? Weren’t many of us, in childhood, taught to share? Does this courteous gesture expire, with the ability to talk to each other?

Who are we, if not accessories to our phones, and busy virtual lives? When did we forget to care about the faces around us? Polite waves, the occasional “How are you?” When did we stop waiting for a response?

GO OUTSIDE. Breathe fresh air. Walk your dog; lift your face to the sun, and observe your surroundings. Speak with those around you, because a stranger is a friend you haven’t met yet. Climb a tree, row a boat, go for a run.

Check out a library and read a book (turn pages like a dinosaur because it is more fun). Smell the old tomes and remember a life when our noses were buried in books, not screens. Days we did not swipe pages on a tablet.

Create art. The scent of crayons will send you straight back to kindergarten, when there were no cell phones or internet and the world was filled with wonder.

Enjoy “real” life, with a smile, and remember to look up!

–SJB

Often, I have been approached with the question, “How can I help a person suffering with mental illness?”

In my experience, here are a few pointers:

Never play into a person’s delusions. With great care, gently handle a situation without causing the person to believe they are devastatingly wrong, but hear them out. Carefully assure the person that everything will be alright, without pretending to understand what they are experiencing. Comfort in confusion.

The mental health system is flawed in many ways. For example, when I visited several hospitals in 2013, the staff treated my delusions as if what I strongly believed was indeed the truth. No one said, “It will be okay.” “You are in a safe place.” “You and your family are not in danger.” They played along.

My parents and sisters visited me as frequently as possible, assuring me of these truths; yet being surrounded day after day by lies from hospital personnel strengthened my doubt. My little sister, Jessica, discovered that eye contact was crucial. She looked deep into my eyes and assured me that this would pass; I was not alone; I was safe. She liberated me of my delusions, if only during visiting hours. Every time she visited felt like Christmas. I suppose time passed as it does in “dog years.” She was there, then she was back. All the time in between was so blurry, leading me to believe that her visits were more frequent, as though she never left.

Make eye contact. Listen intently and give no advice, when the person is seized by an insurmountable low mood. In that state, advice feels like an itchy sweater.

Sometimes, anxiety weighs on a mind without tangible reasons. In this case, a bit of light help may be appreciated. Spending time outside, soaking in endorphins and Vitamin D is paramount. When I sit in the yard with my dog, nature behaves like quick sand. Out there, I have no desire to go inside. I am wrapped in a snug hold by the trees and vegetation. The smell of grass is comforting; reminding me of Saturday afternoon soccer games as a ten-year-old, the relief of finishing a game and removing my shin guards. Exercise can be a chore, but a mood lifter. I hike with my dad every week, and that eases the worry for a while. Exercising with a partner can make it more appealing. In other cases, advice may not be well received. Read between the lines.

Be patient.

There is a delicate balance between concern and expression. In the past, when my mom asked me, “Have you taken your meds?” “Are you okay?” or “Are you feeling revved up?” I became agitated. Over time, I successfully noticed symptoms and headed them off before these questions. When I needed a nudge toward taking my medications or changing the med cocktail, my mom always noticed. She guided me toward the right path-without steering-when I reached that fork in the road. I decided that in order to avoid the questions I so hated, Mom was permitted to ask me, “How are you?” I do not know why, but word choice is key.

“Comfort food” is magical. My mom’s homemade bread saved my life. People say, “I’m starving!” when they are mildly hungry. I almost literally starved to death, failing to recognize the relationship between sustenance and utensils. I forgot how to eat and had less than a week to live. In order to avoid starvation, I was rushed to a medical psych ward, where I slowly reintroduced food to my body. I wasn’t eating-until my mom brought me a loaf of homemade bread. They say that “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” I say that is the truth for everyone. Comfort food goes a long way. I highly recommend it.

Research materials are available for those seeking knowledge of specific psychiatric disorders, and how to help your loved ones and yourselves. I strongly recommend the summaries found in the “for Dummies” sources such as “Bipolar Disorder for Dummies,” “Schizophrenia for Dummies,” and so forth. There are also issues related to “Medicare for Dummies,” which can also be extremely helpful.

NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) has a plethora of information. I recommend starting here on your quest for knowledge. nami.org

In dire circumstances, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline may be needed. The number has recently changed to: 988

When I relocated to a small town in 2015, I was employed by an old man and his wife who owned an antique business. I refinished furniture, smashed silver to rid it of sand, lifted heavy objects, rode in a company van for drop offs and pick ups. My favorite aspects of the job were: being in the basement working alone, attending the auctions and helping with estate sales. I rescued countless treasures from the rubble. Many of those sales were spent outside. One day, drenched in sweat after a long day under the scorching kiss of the sun, I discovered an anonymous poem. I am not claiming it as my own work, but it is anonymous, so I am quoting a ghost.

–SJB

“THE MAN IN THE GLASS”

When you get what you want in your struggle for self

And the world makes you king for a day,

Just go to a mirror and look at yourself

And see what that man has to say.

For it isn’t your father or mother or wife

Whose judgement upon you must pass,

The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life

Is the one staring back from the glass.

Some people might think you’re a straight-shootin’ chum

And call you a wonderful guy.

But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum

If you can’t look him straight in the eye.

He’s the fellow to please, never mind all the rest

For he’s with you clear to the end.

And you’ve passed your most dangerous test

If the guy in the glass is your friend.

You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years

And get pats on the back as you pass,

But your final reward will be heartache and tears

If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.

–Anonymous

I know it says “man.” It doesn’t necessarily have to be a man, but it was written this way. I could not have quoted this poem if I made changes.

People die every day. It is undeniable, though we deny this fact until the truth slaps us in the face. Death is inevitable, yet not always born of natural causes. In many scenarios, the Grim Reaper collects individuals long before their time.

In my own experience, the beginning stages of a blossoming bout with mania can be thrilling. The adrenaline rush is like no other; the energy and productivity stretch my mind and body to its limits. These episodes prevent me from sleeping, deeming it a “waste of time.” During these periods of confusion, I am not violent. I am not a danger to myself or others.

Turning that smile upside down, the other end of my spectrum is a crippling depression coupled with insurmountable anxiety. My limbs are heavy, and rising from slumber is a most difficult task. For days, I live as a zombie-not truly alive-surrounded by a fog so thick I may be drowning. Smiling requires energy I do not possess, even to plaster a fake across my facade. In this condition, I am not violent. I am not a danger to myself or others.

Everyone stumbles at a fork in the road. Some turn to self-medication, seeking solace behind a mask of pleasure; they cover symptoms with a Band-Aid. Others resort to violence when they are unstable. Without aid or support, victims of hardship and neglect are oft times held responsible for actions beyond their control. They are considered “bad guys.”

When events of horror befall our “normal” lives, there must be a villain. This cannot be the work of someone in their right mind. Something is “wrong” with the culprit. Before reasonable doubt, the suspect is branded with labels such as, “crazy,” and “psycho.” Mental illness is treated like a crime.

The Reaper visits schools, public parks, individual residences. He carries guns. He gives no thought to collateral damage. He murders children. He shoots innocent men and women in the streets. Death follows us all, and it fails to unite us in grief; to lock the guns away and throw away the keys. Send our children to therapy. Work out issues diplomatically. Most of all, we need to look in the mirror at the reflection of a human being with problems not so different from those around us. We must cease to point fingers, blame scapegoats, hide from the “bad guys,” and begin to realize that we are all villains sometimes. “Bad guys” aren’t born. They are the creation of misunderstandings.

–SJB

Disclaimer:

My relationship with psychiatric disorders is unique and does not fit a mold. Every case stands alone. I cannot diagnose or treat psychiatric disorders. I cannot prescribe medication. I have only my experience and my voice. If you would like to ask questions or speak to me about any particular issue, I can be reached by email. Thank you!

Kristy, please do not worry! I am perfectly fine.

A famous wizard once said, “Of course this is all in your head. Should that mean that it is not real?”

What is “real?” Who knows? Anyone can take a guess or turn to Google for answers, but in the world we live in now, “real” is distorted. It cannot be defined based solely on a string of adjectives. People are slaves to miniature hand-held devices, focusing their eyes on a screen throughout the day and lifting their heads only for brief replies. Children are born with computer skills and extensive knowledge of video games. We have lost the ability to engage in personal communication and human contact. We hide behind tablets, laptops, phones. Conversations channeled through these outlets are often negative and cowardly. On this side of the screen, our confidence is boosted; we believe we will not be punished for our unkind words. Collateral damage will not ensue; this method of communication isn’t “real.” Punishment may not occur, so the cycle continues.

Artificial intelligence programs are helpful, especially now when so many businesses are short-handed. They are also snagging jobs which could be available to humans, yet cutting the costs for business owners. Employment positions ask more of employees than before the pandemic, as many have not returned to work. Some who rise to the task are overqualified and underpaid. When I go grocery shopping, I engage with those stocking shelves or working the register because I can only imagine how tough their days are. I like to make human connections with anyone willing. In my past, I worked as a cashier in a grocery store, and it is far from easy. These people are real, and they fade into the background.

People are strangers before they are friends. These days, we know more strangers than friends. Friends are virtual, not “real.” Before this mess, times were simpler. The personal accounts of strangers were not posted online and shared with the world. Now, we have no reason to ask about our partner’s day. We followed them on social media all day, so there is nothing to tell! Couples having nice dinners together are not having nice dinners with each other. They are glued to their phones, though they sit across from their partners, occasionally sharing something they find interesting with the other. Heads down, eating without seeing their food. What kind of relationship is that? Is this our new reality? We are so cut off from our lives; we look to virtual reality. “Reality” is almost extinct.

In the case of psychiatric disorders, reality is monumentally different. I have visions, which may be considered delusions. Within a delusion, it is difficult to grasp reality. Does society devote more time scrutinizing a person’s “reality,” only because it doesn’t fit the mold? Will others believe my word, when they disagree? Sadly, in some cases, they will not believe the tales of a person struggling with mental illness. We are deemed “incompetent.” Everyone is afraid of the unknown, reality pushed under the rug. What constitutes reality? Is it subjective? Does it exist? I believe it eludes us all.

–SJB