Writers deal with uncooperative thoughts by wrangling with them on paper. I figured out years ago that if I just can't get past something, it means I'll have to write about it, and see what others think.
Lately I have been unable to get past the death of Cayman Naib, a teenager I never even knew. Cayman was 13 years old and a student at The Shipley School when he killed himself recently. I was 13 years old and a student at The Shipley School when my brother killed himself in 1968. For me, reading about Cayman's suicide is like walking through a door into 1968. The psyche does not know what year it is, and it can jump around wherever it wants.
Most Shipley students have money - some more, some less. Money buys anything, including privacy. People most likely will not call Child Protective Services if you live on 17 acres, as Cayman did, or in a gorgeous estate on the Main Line, as I did. But a family's wealth and address hardly guarantee a childhood free from abuse, brutality, or terror.
The two suicides are not related, but there are some parallels. Whenever a young person kills himself it leads to more questions than answers. You can never know what is happening behind the closed doors of another family. The adults might even be clueless about what is happening themselves.
Cayman took a gun from his family's home and shot himself in the head. He should not have had access to a loaded gun. The gun should have had a working trigger lock on it. The parents are responsible for giving him this way to die. However, if he was really determined, he might have found another way to kill himself.
I was very struck by a quote from Cayman's mother, who said: "We are told he didn't suffer." DIDN'T SUFFER? Yes, he died a quick death - but clearly he was in anguish, probably for years. What a strange, self-serving remark.
The Shipley School is a private "college preparatory" school, and the students who go there are being groomed for greater and more difficult things. In my day, we had an hour of homework per subject per night - and we didn't get home until late because of sports and other after-school activities. If I started homework at 7:00, I already knew I was in trouble, and I'd have to do academic triage, addressing the most critical assignments first. Unless you were super bright - and some of my friends were beyond brilliant - you could never do enough. It simply wasn't possible.
Cayman was flunking a course (or courses) at Shipley, and apparently this was such an insurmountable crisis to him that he could not face his parents about it. Death was preferable. Not long after receiving an e-mail from the school, he took the gun and ran out into a rainstorm. His mother, the last person to see him alive, was not aware he had left the house. He was dead on the family property within half an hour, although the search for his body continued far and wide for five days.
Cayman was still in the "lower school" at Shipley, which goes up to seventh grade. At 13, he would have been one of the older kids in his class. Possibly he had some learning disabilities - in which case the schoolwork would have been extra difficult for him. This is speculation, but we do know he was behind in his work and flunking something. He needed help.
Has anyone EVER asked you what grade you got in seventh grade math? Who CARES what grades you got in seventh grade? Was there no one at home or at school to tell Cayman his grades were not more important than his LIFE? Why was he unable to face being home? Why did all the adults in his life, at home and at school, fail him?
I really don't want this boy to die in vain. We need take the pressure off kids these days. We need to do a better job of supporting them. And we need to TALK to them, even if they seem "fine."
I really don't want this boy to die in vain. We need take the pressure off kids these days. We need to do a better job of supporting them. And we need to TALK to them, even if they seem "fine."
My oldest brother Richard graduated from the Episcopal Academy - at the time, a boys' version of Shipley - and from there went to Colgate University. He hated it there. But like Cayman, my brother could not face going home. He tried to go off the grid and be self-sufficient, getting a small walk-up apartment and working in a gas station.
My parents were not aware Richard had left college. My mother called his fraternity occasionally and someone would say he wasn't there. Apparently that was sufficient for her. Eventually another student told her Richard had been gone for weeks.
By March of 1968 - exactly this time of year - Richard was dead.
At first I truly believed it was a Tom Sawyer trick - that Richard was still alive somewhere in the world, but he had decided to make a final break from my parents. I would talk to him in my head. "I get it," I would say to him. "I know why you disappeared. I know how they abused and disdained you all your life. But could you maybe come visit me secretly sometime? I really love you, and I miss you."
I don't know how many days it took for it to sink into my brain that Death means never, ever seeing someone again, no matter how much you love and miss them. I could talk to Richard in my head all I wanted, but he would never be secretly visiting me behind my parents' back. Every speck of his energy had been wiped off the face of the earth, forever. This realization was like looking deep into the universe and finding darkness and cold silence without end.
I freaked out. When I was forced to admit to myself that Richard was really gone, I cried desperately. "Cried" isn't even an adequate word.
My mother sat next to me, not crying, and not speaking. As far as I know she didn't touch me or say a word. There were no comforting platitudes like, "Your brother is in a better place," or "He is out of pain now," or even, "We'll never forget him as long as we keep talking about him." She had virtually nothing to offer. I did not understand it at the time, but she was not only incapable of sympathy or empathy, but also was completely devoid of spirituality. Even a non-metaphysical comment like "it gets better" would have been a straw for me to grasp, but there was nothing - just my horror at spinning off into blackness.
My parents never mentioned Richard again. When I returned to school, nothing was said. One teacher took me aside and told me she was sorry, and I was so astonished I didn't know what to say. I received no counseling, and no one ever asked me what it was like at home. It was Hell, thank you very much.
Cayman has a sister who is one year older. I have the feeling her parents are not going to be much help. I hope someone reaches out to her and tells her that you never get over it - but life goes on whether you are bereft or not.
Have you ever known someone who committed suicide? Did you lose anyone in your family at a young age? What was the most helpful thing anyone said to you? Please share it here, so we all will have something to say, rather than silence.
