I had my first reading on Wednesday and it went really well. I thought I was going to be nervous, but I was surprisingly calm. I'm sure it didn't hurt that every time I looked into the audience I saw family members and close friends.

I read a section from Part III, when I am studying abroad in Paris.

I just need to put a little space
between me and the panic.
I need a little bit of calm
so I can get a grip
and hold on to something,
to pull myself up and out.

THANK YOU to everyone who came out to support me.

More NYC readings!

Can't come see me on June 28th @ Teabag Poet's Lounge....here's one more chance.

Tuesday July 11th, 7pm--FREE
Bluestockings
172 Allen Street [between Stanton and Rivington]
http://www.bluestockings.com/

Bluestockings is a radical bookstore, fair trade cafe, and activist center in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Come support them . . . and me.

I am already getting fan mail!

I think it is completely amazing that I am already getting fan mail!
I have only written a few fan emails, and there were all after I had a book deal--as if that gave me some sort of credibility...

I think it's really courageous to send an email to a stranger, praising them, without the certainty that you'll get a reply. But I suppose the reply is secondary. . . sharing how the work made you feel is the important part.

"When I read some of your book, I didn't feel alone anymore."

"Your words described some of my own experiences so precisely, it made me look back at those times and appreciate how far I've come, how much stronger I am, and how much I've grown."

"I felt like I was reading my own journal entries from years ago when I struggled with anxiety attacks. Thank you SO MUCH for writing your book. I hope young people who are fighting their own battles with the consuming anxiety and fear will read your book and find comfort. I wish I had read this when I was going through my hell."

For many years, having an anxiety disorder shaped nearly every bit of my life...

For the last few years, whenever I tried to talk about my experience with anxiety disorder, I ran into the same problem. I couldn’t describe myself as having an anxiety disorder because I’d gone months without having a panic attack. And I couldn’t say I had an anxiety disorder because I still felt its effects.

Trying to find the right verb was more than just semantics. For many years, having an anxiety disorder shaped nearly every bit of my life—where I went, who I went with, how long I stayed. I do not believe that anxiety disorder can be flipped off like a switch, and accordingly, simply using past or present tense did not accurately reflect how I was feeling. The body has an unbelievable capacity to remember pain, and my body was not ready to forget what I had been through. It was only about a year ago that I settled on saying, “I am in recovery from anxiety disorder.”

I was diagnosed with panic disorder only a few months into my freshman year of college. My first attacks were scattered and seemingly without pattern. But it wasn’t long before the attacks picked up speed and I was having several a day. I often felt nervous, not in control of my body, and convinced that I was going to die. As their frequency increased, it became difficult to do normal things like go to class, the dining hall, or parties.

It was textbook panic disorder. Only I didn’t know that. I thought I had gone crazy and that all the things I hoped for in my life—that my parents hoped for—were gone and that I’d become one of those stories (the one about the nice young girl who goes off to college with a bright future and comes home with a fistful of pills and a blank look on her face).

I am thankful that I possess two qualities: being forthcoming about my feelings and being proactive about my health. I believe that these qualities are a big part of the reason that I was able to ask for help. And getting help was surprisingly easy. One fall afternoon I went to my college’s counseling center and asked for an appointment. Within days I was seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist and was on medication.

That was ten years ago. Since that fall, I have seen more than a half dozen therapists and taken as many different medications. I’ve had two episodes where I nearly checked myself into a hospital. I have been to yoga and meditation classes, swung tennis rackets at pillows, practiced the art of breathing, tried hypnosis, and taken herbal remedies. I’ve done things that once seemed impossible—like going to crowded concerts or sitting with relative ease in a packed lecture hall. I’ve also gone many months at a time without panic attacks or medication. Most recently, I published I Don’t Want to Be Crazy, a memoir about my experiences with panic disorder.

People want to know why I’m better. They want to know the formula. Again, this is not a simple question with a simple answer. For sure, fluctuating hormones, growing older, moving out of my parents’ house, and becoming more confident and secure with myself have all impacted my recovery. The only thing I can say with certainty is that my commitment to therapy and my willingness to try new medications has made the most difference.

I Don't Want to Be Crazy readings in NYC

I'll be doing a short reading with several other poets at Silk Road Café/Teabag Poets Lounge.The second one is at KGB with Ned Vizzini, a super author. If you can only make it to one event, this is the one to go to.

Wednesday, June 28th
8:00-10:00 p.m.
Silk Road Café/Teabag Poets Lounge
30 Mott Street
$1 at the door, with $5 drink minimum
www.teabagnyc.com/poetslounge.shtml

Thursday, July 20th7:00-9:00 p.m. [CANCELLED, WILL BE AT END OF AUGUST]
FREE Reading
[also with Ned Vizzini, author of Its Kind of Funny Story www.nedvizzini.com]
KGB Bar
85 East 4th Street
www.kgbbar.com

I Don't Want to Be Crazy is in College Bound magazine

An amazing ad in the summer issue of College Bound magazine. http://www.collegebound.net/

I'm on seventeen.com

My book is on Seventeen magazine's Web site!!!
http://www.seventeen.com/funstuff/games/

Which must-read book should be on your summer reading list? Take this quiz for a list of six exciting books that you won't be able to put down!

My book falls under the DRAMA category:
You thrive on hearing the latest gossip and juicy secrets! That's why we know you'll be into books with a mix of romance and drama all rolled into one!

What they say about my book:
A true story, this book is about coming to grips with a psychological disorder. When Samantha first left home for college, she thought she was leaving behind all the things that were holding her back from independence -- her parents, her boyfriend and the person she was supposed to be. But, as new pressures in her life increase, Samantha begins to suffer from anxiety attacks that leave her shaken and even physically incapacitated. She then heads on a journey down the road to discovery, learning to cope with her new disorder.

Sightings!

There has been a sighting! A writer from Arizona bought my book in Borders.
So, this makes it officially ON SALE!

I'll have to go to my local book store to see it for myself...

So it happened! I held my book.

So it happened! I held my book.
I was sitting at work when someone dropped two copies on my desk.
For a while, I had wondered how I would react when I finally saw my book. Would I cry? Scream? Be speechless?
It turns out that I did a lot of jumping up and down . . . . and a look-at-how-gorgeous-my-book-is dance [there are no words to describe how silly this was.]
I stared at the book for a long time. I felt the cover, smelled the paper, inspected the binding, appreciated that I didn't look like a freak in my author photo, and oh-ed and ah-ed over the garnet colored endpapers. [Somehow I had forgotten that hardcovers have those.]
Then I ran around the office showing my book to anyone who would talk to me. After I made the rounds, my face was sore from all the smiling.

And then I remembered that thousands of these books are going to be printed and [hopefully] read. Oddly enough, I sometimes forget that--like the process of writing and getting my book published was only for me.
People ask me all the time if that's weird--knowing that strangers will be reading about the worst part of my life. Strangers I can deal with. I don't have to talk to them. I don't have to sit next to them at dinner or in a meeting.
The thing that sometimes freaks me out is that several of my coworkers [and my parents] have read it. Lately, people have been coming up to me at work to tell me congratulations and that they just read my book.
I am always tremendously grateful to hear when someone has read my book. Thrilled if they say they liked it. A little bit sad when they say that they, or someone they know, has an anxiety disorder.

But when the conversation is over, I have to erase it. I can't walk around the office thinking, he knows how I've been on more than a 1/2 dozen different medications or she knows how close I came to hospitalization . . . and then of course, there’s the stuff about guys . . . .

But in reality, I know that what I wrote about isn’t all that different from what other people have gone through. Yeah, the details are different, but the emotions are the same.

We all have problems.

We all have problems.
But that's ok. That's life.
What's not ok is NOT GETTING HELP.

Approximately one in five young people suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year. (Department of Health & Human Services)

An estimated two-thirds of all young people with mental health problems are not getting the help they need. (Department of Health & Human Services)

Approximately one in four adults—more than 57 million people—suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year. (National Institute of Mental Health)

Anxiety Disorders are the most common mental illness in the U.S. with 19.1 million (13.3%) of the adult U.S. population (ages 18-54) affected.

As many as 1 in 10 young people (10%) may have an anxiety disorder. (U.S. Department of Health & Human Services)

Nearly 50% of all adolescents who are clinically depressed also have an anxiety disorder. (NYU Child Study Center)

20-40% of all adolescents with eating disorders will also have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. (NYU Child Study Center)

Bio...

Queens, New York, December 1978. I was born too early and too small. Weighing just shy of four pounds, my father said I looked like a chicken. My mother said I looked like a china doll. I’m not sure what my three-year-old sister thought of me, but I’ve heard stories about toddlers trying to put their new siblings in the trash.

Elementary school started out okay. I have a few select memories from kindergarten: a student’s grandfather, an Italian chef, coming to our class to cook squid on a hot plate; building a toy car out of pieces of wood; and putting milk money into a very, very small brown envelope.

The next few years were mostly all right. The highs included: performing as Jackie and the Beanstalk in a third-grade play, reading Choose Your Own Adventure books (and always cheating), and getting up to “knee-zies” in Chinese jump rope. The lows included: hiding in the bathroom whenever math homework was collected in the fifth grade, frequent feelings of déjà vu, and being told I had “skeleton hands” by the boy I had a crush on.

Sixth grade was the beginning of a new era—private school—where the classes were small and my inability to do math was quickly discovered. This is also when I wrote my first short story. It was based on an old photograph of my mother’s—a man and a woman standing in the woods with their backs to the camera.

My teacher gave me an A, something I didn’t often get. My parents went crazy for the story, and my seeming maturity. The consensus was that I had talent.

At some point in high school I started keeping a journal (not to be confused with the pink diaries with heart shaped locks that I had had before). Every few months I’d go to the drug store to buy a new marble composition book. I’d spend a lot of time decorating the cover with stickers, drawings, photos, and cut outs from magazines. And when I thought the cover was sufficiently cool, I’d start writing in it.

When I was a senior in high school, I took AP Writing. Our teacher required us to write ten journal pages a week. I think I was one of the few in the class who didn’t mind. But by then I was already a journal addict. I couldn’t go anywhere without it. And if I left my notebook at home by mistake, I would write on scraps of paper, napkins, my hand, anything. (This was also the year I discovered Anais Nin--the undisputed queen of journal writing.)
There were two things I loved most about having a journal. The first was that it filled my time. Waiting for a train? No problem. Stuck on the bus? All set. Trying to ignore my classmates during my free period? Super.

The second thing I loved was how my journals felt. Not the weight of the book, but the pages. I loved running my hands over my writing, over the impressions made by my pen. It was like my own version of braile.

When I was ready to begin writing I Don’t Want to Be Crazy, my memoir about anxiety disorder, I took out my journals from senior year of high school through the year after I graduated college. I thought that transcribing all the entries about anxiety would be easy--that there would be enough to fill a book. I was so wrong. My journals from freshman year had almost nothing about anxiety--ironic since I thought I was losing my mind.

Things didn’t look so easy anymore. I needed a new plan. Instead, I used my journals to help me recreate my world. They reminded me who I was friends with, what types of parties I went to, and what classes I was in. Other journals were more helpful—especially the ones from when I was studying abroad in Paris my junior year. Those journals were far more explicit about my anxiety. For the first time, I could actually lift entire poems from my journal and use them in my book (with much editing, of course).

One thing that I noticed throughout all my journals was a constant self-awareness of their significance. I would often scold myself as I wrote: “Must write neater. This is going to be important.” I had always fantasized that one day my journals would be published—although, I was fairly certain that I would have to die tragically first.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen. I Don't Want to Be Crazy came out in July 2006, and I'm still here. I live in New York City and work as a children’s book editor at a publishing house. I still write in my journal whenever I can.

It's an honor to have gotten a blurb from Ellen Hopkins, author of Crank, an astounding novel in verse.

"Versifying a novel takes craft and dedication. Versifying a memoir takes courage. I Don't Want to Be Crazy invites readers inside the head of a young woman questioning her sanity. Author Samantha Schutz must be commended for allowing readers such a personal glimpse of this frightening piece of her life experience. "

--Ellen Hopkins
You can visit her at www.ellenhopkins.com

Deb Caletti reveiws I Don't Want to BE Crazy

I just got the most wonderful blurb from YA author Deb Caletti!
She is the award-winning author of several books including Honey, Baby Sweetheart (A National Book Award finalist), The Queen of Everything, and Wild Roses. Visit her at www.debcaletti.com.

"I Don't Want To Be Crazy is intense, intimate, heartbreaking . . . Its power is in its honesty, which is so profound and affecting, I had to remind myself to breathe."

--Deb Caletti

People want to share.

People want to share.

The most amazing thing happens when I tell people about my book--they tell me their problems, their mother's problems, their cousin's problems, their roommate's problems.
People I've never met before, and who I'd imagine would never tell a stranger about their mental health problems, can't wait to dish. I don't think that these people were walking the streets, bursting at the seams to talk about anxiety disorder, and happened on me. Instead, I think that hearing about my openness and and willingness to be honest triggers something in them. I think people want to be open. I think people want to share--only they don't want to be the one that cracks first. They don't want to be the one caught "with their insides hanging on their outside" (a quote from my mom) if the other person isn't going to do the same.

I always crack first. That's just how I'm built. Of course, I want to be open because that's what feels right to me--but there's something else. I want to be open because I want people to know me. But maybe that's just a crafty way of trying to get to know other people, too.

It all started in my psychiatrist’s office a few years ago.

It all started in my psychiatrist’s office a few years ago.

He asked how I’d been doing and if I’d had any panic attacks lately. I thought about the last few weeks and all the places I’d gone. Work. Supermarket. Gym. Concert. Friends’ houses. Hardware store. Nope. No panic attacks. But that couldn’t be right.

I thought about it some more and realized that it had been weeks since I had felt any surges of anxiety and months since I’d actually had a panic attack. How was that even possible? Only a few years before, I was in college and having as many as five panic attacks a day.

Even though I wasn’t currently having a lot of problems with anxiety, I was living like I did. It still took a good amount of convincing to get me to go to places where I used to have panic attacks. I’d still go home earlier than my friends on a Saturday night. And I still hated checking my coat at bars or restaurants in case I needed to make a quick escape. Things were better—but I didn’t feel better.

In order to make sense of my lack of anxiety, in order to really feel it, I was going to have to quantify it. I thought that if I could remind myself of how bad things were in college, I could see how different—and how good—my life was now.

From the ages of fourteen through twenty, I faithfully kept a journal. As a teenager, I’d go to the drug store every few months to buy a new marble notebook. I’d spend a lot of time decorating the cover with stickers, drawings, photos, and cut outs from magazines and when I thought the cover was sufficiently cool, I’d start writing in it.

When I got home from my psychiatrist’s office, I took out my journals from college. I got comfortable in my favorite green armchair and started reading. I only had to read a few pages to see how bad things were. I’d written a lot about being sad and tired all the time and how I hated going to class because I’d end up having a panic attack. I kept reading, but the words didn’t seem like mine. They were someone else’s--someone who was in a lot of pain and not sure if she was going to get better. I could barely remember this person—let alone identify with her.

What got me writing the book was simple.
There were no books for teens about anxiety disorder. (There are of course, many self-help-type books on the subject, but they weren’t engaging reads and they didn’t make me feel any less alone.) There are books for teens about drug abuse, depression, rape, suicide, OCD, cutting, learning disabilities, eating disorders…but there were no books about generalized anxiety disorder or panic disorder--ironic since anxiety often plays a major role in other disorders. In short, I wanted representation.

Everyone knows what it’s like to feel anxious...

Everyone knows what it’s like to feel anxious.

Anxiety and fear are important—and normal—parts of our lives. Anxiety can give us the kick we need to study late into the night, stay alert in what could be a dangerous situation, and keep us on our toes during a presentation. In short, it helps us cope. But this normally helpful emotion can do the exact opposite for people with an anxiety disorder. It can keep them from facing everyday problems or situations and even paralyze them with fear.

If you have an anxiety disorder, or any other type of problem that is making your life unmanageable, know that you are not alone. According to a report by the United States Surgeon General, anxiety disorders are the most common psychiatric illnesses--more than 19 million American adults and more than one in ten American children and adolescents have an anxiety disorder.

Unfortunately, many young people are not getting the help they need. If you are having a hard time with anxiety, or anything else, you don’t need to be ashamed—you need to get help. Talk to a parent, teacher, school counselor, or friend. There are countless resources on the Internet, including information about “live” and on-line support groups for people of all ages.

Check out some of the links below.

Cover and excerpt from I Don't Want to Be Crazy

The cover and an excerpt...

Excerpt from I Don’t Want to Be Crazy, Part I


I don’t understand what’s happening.
I am sitting in Writing Seminar
and it feels like my hands are shaking,
like I’ve got a tremor.
I try hard to focus, stare at my hands,
but I can’t tell whether or not they’re shaking.
I don’t understand why I can’t tell.
I should be able to tell
if my own hands are shaking.
My eyesight can’t be trusted.
I’d try sitting on my hands,
but that would make people stare,
if they haven’t already noticed the shaking.
I try clasping my hands together,
but that’s no good, either.
I can see myself with my hands together,
banging them up and down on the desk
like a piston, like a cartoon sledgehammer.
I see myself doing it,
but I know I’m not.
I can’t be.
If I were, people would be staring.

When class is over,
I am tired and sweaty.
I didn’t see anyone looking at me,
so I must not have done anything crazy.
Maybe I’m getting sick
or maybe I’m finally addicted to cigarettes.
This feeling, the sweating, the shaking—
it must be a nicotine fit.

I go outside with the other smokers,
suck down a few cigarettes before class,
hoping it will make me feel better,
hoping it will calm my nerves.


A friend of Sarah’s from psych class
comes by to pick her up for a party.
Her name is Rebecca.
When I introduce myself
she says that we’ve met before—
that she remembers my eyes.
I feel kind of stupid
for not remembering her,
but she doesn’t seem to care
and invites me to go with them to the party.

When we get there,
Rebecca and Sarah start dancing.
I lean on one of the speakers instead,
let the bass crawl over my back like fingers
and watch kids in big pants
dance in the light and smoke.

Rebecca grabs my hand
and pulls me onto the dance floor.
I can’t stop watching the people around me—
watching what they do,
watching to see if they are watching me
dancing like an idiot.

Rebecca is dancing with her eyes shut
and she is smiling.
She doesn’t care what anyone thinks
and it is amazing.


Rebecca and her friends
have been together since the first week.
There’s her roommate Rachel,
and Amanda, Tara, and Jennifer.
We all hang out in Rebecca’s room and they joke about
how they stopped hanging out with this crazy girl Monica
at the same time they started hanging out with me—
like I took her spot.

Being with them is like walking in
after a play has already started.
You try to slip in quietly and find your seat,
but people turn around,
give you dirty looks,
and whisper to their neighbors
about how rude you are.


A few months ago,
leaving for college seemed glamorous,
but now it’s hard to believe
that this little dorm room,
with its scratchy sheets
and a lock that sticks,
is home.

It’s hard to accept
that this is my new life,
that these are my new friends.

I am one in many here.
There are dozens here as good as me,
even more who are smarter,
funnier, prettier.
And it scares me
because before I stuck out
and now I blend in
like a pair of khakis
and a baseball cap
at a keg party.


I can’t sit still in class.
I can’t hear what the teacher is saying.
All I can hear is my voice in my head
telling me that things are not right—
that I am not right.
I am trapped in this classroom.
It feels like something
is trying to push its way out of me,
out of my chest.
I feel like everyone can see it bubbling up,
like they’re waiting for me to burst,
to boil over.

I have to get out of here.
I fake a coughing fit and leave,
but once I get in the hallway
I realize I’m still trapped—
stuck inside of this shaking, sweating body.
I’d rip my skin off if I could.
The only place that seems safe
is the bathroom.
Sitting in a stall, with my chest on my thighs,
I try to breathe,
But the more I think about my breathing,
the more I feel like I can’t breathe.
It feels like I have a raging fever,
like my insides are melting.
This must be what it feels like
the moment before you die.


I have been telling myself
that these feelings are new,
but they aren’t.
I just didn’t connect them before.

I felt it the first time I smoked pot junior year.
At first things were fun,
but then everything broke.

It felt like my chest caved in
and I couldn’t tell the difference
between the bass in the music
and a car alarm going off outside.
I couldn’t get my mind to stop racing.
I felt like I had no control over my body—
like my arms and legs were twitching.
I thought I was going to have to go to the hospital.
I thought I was going to die.
I told myself it was the pot.

But it happened again,
before college,
when I wasn’t high.
I was in Staples with my dad,
shopping for school supplies.

All of a sudden the ground felt soft
and the sounds around me
were too fast and too slow
at the same time.

I thought I would lose control,
do something crazy—start screaming
right there in the pen aisle.
My dad would know.
Everyone would know.

Now this feeling follows me
everywhere I go.
It clings to me,
makes my skin crawl,
makes my skin burn
when I walk across campus,
when I check books out of the library,
when I talk to my friends.
It sits with me in class,
whispers in my ear,
tells me that I shouldn’t be here.


Please God make this feeling stop.
I can’t take it.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Make it stop.
Please.
Must concentrate on something,
anything.


8:00 a.m.
Smack alarm clock.
Haul ass out of bed.
Shower with very hot water.

8:23 a.m.
Dress.
Paint over dark circles under eyes.
Add color to cheeks.

8:47 a.m.
Eat breakfast alone.
Avoid caffeine.
Try to ignore all the noise.

9:03 a.m.
Smoke cigarette.
Go to Writing Seminar.

9:34 a.m.
Feel light-headed.
Feel like passing out.
Fake coughing fit.
Leave class.
Drink water.
Go to bathroom.
Pull down pants.
Sit on toilet.
Put chest on thighs.
Stare at tiles.
Breathe deeply.
Breathe deeply.

9:39 a.m.
Get a grip.
Return to class.

10:00 a.m.
Go back to dorm room.
Get under covers.
Sleep.

12:45 p.m.
Eat lunch with friends.
Try to ignore the noise.

1:20 p.m.
Smoke cigarette.
Go to Freshman Seminar.

1:46 p.m.
Feel like people are staring.
Feel hot.
Feel cold.
Feel out of control.
Fake coughing fit.
Leave class.
Drink water.
Go to bathroom.
Pull down pants.
Sit on toilet.
Put chest on thighs.
Stare at tiles.
Breathe deeply.
Breathe deeply.

1:54 p.m.
Get a grip.
Return to class.


There’s this warm white light
that comes in the window
of the waiting room in Health Services.
I’ve been in a bunch of times
for back pain, sinus pressure, dizziness,
a hemorrhoid that I thought was ass cancer.

I like how the blood pressure cuff feels
tight around my arm,
the way the nurses put the cold stethoscope
to my chest and listen,
listen,
listen.


Rebecca, her friends, and I
hang out a lot now,
but I’m pretty sure they think I’m crazy.
One minute I’m fine, talking about homework,
eating lasagna in the dining hall,
and the next I’m complaining
about how dim the lighting is
and running out the door
to get back to my room
and under the covers.

We go to Freshman Seminar together,
but sitting with half the freshman class
crammed into the theater is more than I can take.
Sometimes I go to the bathroom
and don’t come back.


I have moved from the front row
of all my classes to the back.
I can’t take the feeling of people
looking at me, burning holes in my back.
Back here I can hide
my shaking hands and feet.


I have resigned myself
to the fact that I have gone insane.
I am too tired
to keep fighting
the empty feeling in my stomach
and the buzzing in my head.

This was not supposed to be how things turned out.
There were steps taken, expectations—
a specialized kindergarten and elementary school,
a prestigious private high school
complete with a kilt and knee socks,
summer study programs disguised as camp.

This is not
how things are supposed to be.