MENTAL ILLNESS
At the time, children generally weren’t diagnosed with depression, let alone severe bipolar depression. But Naima’s illness only grew more apparent. As the years went by, her determination to confront it grew, too.
“She fought and fought and fought,” Vander Does said.
Naima died by suicide on Jan. 23 at age 35. She had by then sought and endured almost every imaginable treatment, from the standard to the experimental. Naima took medications, and she went to counseling. She tried acupuncture and electroconvulsive therapy, and she raised money online to pay for a drug that wasn’t covered by insurance.
She made music, art and an astounding number of friends. Some of them struggled, too.
“The very special thing about her is that she was an advocate for herself and for other people,” said Vander Does, a jazz musician and poet who lives in Clintonville. “Naima helped a lot of people not kill themselves.”
Her obituary described her as a “fierce soul,” full of love and proud to push back against the stigma of mental illness. Vander Does and Naima’s mom, Dee Keller, said she hated the memes on Facebook that portray a simple walk in the woods as effective treatment for depression. People with diabetes and cancer, Naima reasoned, aren’t told to skip the pills and heal themselves with a stroll through the park.
Standing up for others
More than 200 mourners came to Naima’s memorial service Feb. 18 at the Martin Janis Senior Center, where she was remembered through eulogies, songs, poetry and pictures. Dozens of people left written notes; others recorded video messages for her family.
Speaker after speaker recalled how Naima always wanted to make sure everyone she loved was all right, even when she wasn’t. Her pain rarely went away for long. But in spite of it, or maybe because of it, she kept trying to set the world straight.
“Grief is a really tricky beast,” Andrea Critchet told the crowd. “If Naima were standing here, she’d tell you it’s OK.”
Because of what she learned from Naima, Critchet said, “I’ll never, ever not listen to someone. I’ll always help. And that’s what everyone in here needs to do, too.”
Jacob Winger, a family friend, recalled a time in elementary school when he was being bullied on the playground. “Naima came charging in with her fists up, ready to throw down,” Winger said. “Naima was fierce, and she was loyal, and Naima stood up for people.”
Winger could do nothing but return the favor as he heard the ache in Naima’s voice one night, and when he asked what he could do, she told him he could come out and sing karaoke with her. Winger really doesn’t like karaoke.
“But Naima always stood up for me, so that night I stood next to her, and I sang show tunes,” he said. “When I think of Naima, I hear laughter.”
After Naima’s death, calls came in to the Franklin County LOSS (Local Outreach to Suicide Survivors) program. The number was unusually high, executive director Denise Meine-Graham said, and she believes it speaks to Naima’s reach.
“She’s clearly made a big impact on so many people,” said Meine-Graham, who lost her son to suicide. “And being so open about her struggle, I would assume she would want others to know that there is help, to stay in the fight. She didn’t want this for anybody else.”
There is a “fine line to walk” when it comes to publicly discussing the life and death of someone who died by suicide, Meine-Graham said. “You don’t want to romanticize it. You also don’t want to go to the other extreme — which is more common — of not talking about it.”
Eliminating stigma
For the most part, Naima’s father feels that because of her search for treatment and the love she received, “she stayed alive a lot longer. She painted a lot more pictures, and she sang a lot more songs.”
But he is not without complaint about a health-care system that has yet to deliver on its promise to treat mental illness on par with physical conditions. Although Naima had coverage through Medicaid, it still was sometimes difficult for her to obtain prompt treatment through the social-service agencies and clinics to which she was referred.
“They’re overburdened and overwhelmed,” Vander Does said. “They would change her doctors and social workers all the time, because of turnover. She couldn’t necessarily get her prescriptions easily.”
He also wants to know how his youngest daughter, who had a long history of suicide attempts and psychiatric hospitalizations, was able to get a gun.
“Did she go through a background check? ... I don’t think she had the will to buy it on the black market,” Vander Does said. “As this settles, I intend to find out what happened. And I want to make sure that gun is never in circulation again.”
At the close of Naima’s service, Vander Does — wearing a shirt that she had hand-painted for him — played the trombone and read a new poem. In it, Naima is fireflies.
An exhibition of her art is scheduled to open on Dec. 5 in the Fresh A.I.R. Gallery, 131 N. High St.
“So many of us suffer silently because of the stigma of mental illness,” a friend posted in the guestbook of Naima’s obituary. “May the elimination of that stigma be her legacy.”