Now and again I get very reflective. I’m the type of person that is often examining things; myself, others, life in general. Sometimes the examiner in me goes into overdrive, and I find myself reflecting on things big time. I usually tread somewhat lightly on this website, simply because relaying humorous things makes me happy. I enjoy writing this way, and doing so is a great stress-reliever for me. But now I’m going to talk about stuff that isn’t so funny, and in fact, is downright depressing.
As I have talked about before, my quality of sleep is typically crap. When I do sleep, I have very vivid dreams. I’ve had many recurring dreams for years, usually about people and my relationships with them, things I subconsciously and consciously ruminate over. I’ve been dreaming a lot lately about two family members of mine who are now deceased – my maternal aunts, Dixie and Sheen.
My grandmother gave most of her five children unusual names, and Sheen and Dixie hated theirs. Of course for me, knowing them my entire life, their names always rolled off my tongue and I never really gave much thought to how unusual they were. I thought of them as being more special than unusual. And this was the way I felt for Sheen and Dixie themselves, the people.
Sheen and Dixie were twelve and ten years old, respectively, when I was born to their eldest sister in 1973. Being an only child, I longed for a sense of family from a very young age. I found this in my mother’s brothers and sisters. Most particularly in Sheen and Dixie. I adored them and felt loved and heard by them, something that was missing in my own home due to my stepfather’s twisted idea of “family.” When my stepfather moved my mother and I from our home state of Montana to California in 1979, I was sick inside. Everyone I knew and loved, aside from my mother, was what felt like planets away from us. I yearned to go back; I hated my stepfather – he terrified me. Some time later, I was ecstatic to hear we were moving back, just my mom and I. My stepfather and mother broke up. What I hoped would be a permanent split ended up being only a temporary break-up of less than a year. I was devastated when we returned to California, this time for good. I knew things would never, ever be the same.
I was allowed to fly back to Montana to visit my extended family on two occasions, once in 1984 and once in 1986. These trips were an absolute joy for me, filled with what summertime should be filled with: laughter, get-togethers, long days at the pool, road trips. I looked forward to these trips immensely, counting down the days on my little date books. I lived for these summers.
The summer of 1986 was the last one I ever spent with my aunts. During my stay in Montana that year, I sensed that things were amiss, although nothing specific gave me any reason to feel that way. Once I returned home, I was miserable. Miserable because I was no longer with the family I loved and was instead back in a world controlled by a man I despised.
By the fall of 1986, I had overheard many of my mother’s conversations with her family back home, and their tones told me something was very wrong. Eventually, I deduced that Sheen and Dixie were sick. My mother confirmed this, saying just that: “They’re sick. We are trying to help them feel better.” I knew there was much more to it than that. I remember even asking, “Sick how? What’s wrong with them?” But I never got a straight answer. The phone calls increased in duration and frequency. Things were getting worse.
In December, my mother informed me that Dixie would be coming to stay with us for a while. I was thrilled. I imagined hanging out with Dixie, shopping at the mall, talking about girl stuff, her giving me hair and makeup tips. I told my mom that I couldn’t wait until she came.
“It’s not going to be that kind of a trip,” she told me.
“What?” I didn’t understand.
“Dixie is sick. She’s coming here to get help. The doctors are better here than in Montana.”
“Oh…”
“She’ll be sharing your room with you.”
I still didn’t quite get it. I knew that I couldn’t push it with my mom, that it was obvious she didn’t want to tell me more about it. Questioning my stepfather about it was definitely out of the question.
The day of Dixie’s arrival came. I went to San Francisco International Airport with my mother to pick her up. I was shocked when Dixie appeared at the end of the jet way. Since I had last seen her, just four months earlier, her appearance had changed drastically and for the worst. Dixie had always been very conscientious about her appearance. Not in a vain way - she just took pride in herself – makeup, hair, and clothes. She was always very well groomed, with hair styled, makeup carefully applied, and outfits thoughtfully put together. She had the most beautiful long, blonde hair.
What I saw in the airport disturbed me. Dixie was gaunt, her skin sallow and gray. She wore no makeup, and in place of one of her usual trendy outfits she wore sweats that hung loosely on her. Her hair was flat, and she looked incredibly tired. I barely recognized her.
Nevertheless, I greeted her excitedly, because I was just so glad to see her. I rushed to give her a hug, and again was disturbed. Instead of giving me a bear hug as she usually would, Dixie hugged me gingerly, and as I hugged her she felt frail. And instead of immediately breaking into a giddy conversation about when we would hit our first mall together, Dixie barely spoke. Despite all of this, I took on my usual role, trying to smooth things over, lighten the mood. I thought maybe if I mentioned shopping she might perk up. I was wrong. She said, “Maybe in a while, when I feel better.”
Dixie’s second day with us was a Monday. My mother and stepfather worked, and I went to school. When I came home, Dixie and I were alone. I remember being in my room with her, and feeling awkward. I didn’t know what to say or do, and was realizing how profoundly different she was - this was not the Dixie I knew.
Without prompting, Dixie began talking. She told me that she was very, very sad, that she had never felt so horrible in her entire life. When I asked her why, she said she didn’t know. This was the worst part – not having an explanation for her feelings. “Heather, I wish I had cancer instead of this, I know that sounds awful, but at least then I would know what was wrong with me.”
Dixie’s words stunned me. I felt myself stepping outside of my body, in a way – everything was in slow motion and it all seemed so surreal. After that day, Dixie went downhill. Finally, she was admitted to an inpatient psychiatric unit at Stanford. I hoped with all of my heart and soul that Dixie would find some relief.
While Dixie had been in California with us, my aunt Sheen's condition had been declining. I had not seen her or spoken to her since the previous summer. Murmurings I overheard indicated that she was suffering the same affliction as Dixie, only much worse. I couldn’t imagine this. Apparently Sheen was very far-gone, and was in and out of local hospitals in Montana.
One day while Dixie was in Stanford, my mother received some phone calls. I was ordered to my room. I sat on my bed, attempting to keep busy and drown out the noises coming from the rest of the house. My stepfather barged in through my closed door.
“Heather, your aunt Sheen is dead.” I looked at him in disbelief. “She shot herself inside her truck.” And just like that, he turned and left my room, closing the door behind him.
I was numb. This couldn’t be happening. There had to be some kind of mistake. Maybe I was dreaming, or maybe this was some kind of sick joke.
In the days following Sheen’s death, my mother and I were quiet, muddling through in a state of shock. I was concerned about Dixie; surely this would send her into an even deeper level of despair, never to return. I wondered if she even knew about Sheen. Perhaps my mother had thought it was best not to tell her right away. I was home alone a couple of days after I had been told about Sheen. The phone rang. It was Dixie.
“Hi, Heather. How are you?” she asked.
“Um, I’m okay. How are you?”
“Alright. I guess you know about Sheen.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Well, I know it’s hard, but try not to be too sad. Sheen is much happier now, she is where she wants to be.”
I didn’t hear anymore after that. I couldn’t comprehend what Dixie had just told me. My mind was spinning. Later on, I kept replaying what she had told me over and over in my mind. It just couldn’t be. While I was thinking about all of that, it occurred to me that Dixie actually sounded a bit better. I couldn’t understand that either, how she could be doing better after her sister had died. Nevertheless, a small glimmer of hope was planted inside of me and I held on tightly to the chance that Dixie might be getting better after all.
I was naïve. At thirteen, I knew nothing of suicide or the minds of people who contemplated it.
Almost two weeks after Sheen’s death, my mother received a phone call from Montana. It was not good. My stepfather delivered the news to me.
I was in my room again when he entered, and said, “Dixie’s dead… she did the same thing Sheen did.” Again he was gone.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
I cried, I screamed, I pounded my fists against my bedroom wall. I cried until my eyes were swollen, sore and stinging.
And then: WHY?
God, WHY? WHY them? Why both of them?
In the span of two weeks, I had lost two of the dearest people to my heart, my beloved aunts. My mother had lost two sisters, my grandfather two daughters. My uncles had lost their wives.
My soul has never been the same.
My family never really talked about Sheen and Dixie’s deaths. There were no funerals, no memorial services. We talked about the two of them in conversation once in awhile, just in passing. I always thought they deserved more than that.
I had many questions from the very beginning. Questions I was too afraid to ask, and whose answers never presented themselves on their own. Over time, I have learned the answers to some of them.
I questioned how Dixie had been able to kill herself if she had been inpatient at Stanford. I found out that she had signed herself out of the unit and hitchhiked to the airport. There she made up a story about being stranded, and a couple purchased a plane ticket to Montana for her. She gave them a phony name, so no one knew she was heading home. I realized that the day I spoke with Dixie on the phone, she had come to the decision to end her life. This was why she sounded "better." Even though I know intellectually that there was nothing I could have done, at times I still blame myself for not telling anyone what she had told me.
I questioned how exactly Dixie and Sheen did what they did. Where did they do this? Did they leave a note? I wondered if they hesitated, what their last thoughts were before they pulled the trigger. About six years ago, I got up the courage to ask my mother how it had transpired. “Did they really shoot themselves in the head?”
“No,” she told me. “They shot themselves in the heart.”
This spoke volumes to me. The pain, so severe, had broken their hearts. Sheen, the first to die, had indeed shot herself in her truck. She had driven right outside of town, and parked the truck at a state park the family used to visit. A park ranger found her.
Dixie followed Sheen’s example, as she had done many times in her life. She drove to the same state park, and shot herself in her vehicle. She, too, was found by a park ranger. I have hoped more than a few times that the same park ranger did not find both of them. The affects of suicide are far-reaching, further I'm sure than either Dixie or Sheen could have imagined.
I questioned, initially, how anyone could ever want to die at his or her own hand. I now know what depression is firsthand, and fully understand the grip it had on Sheen and Dixie. I have felt despair in which it hurt to take a breath, and have contemplated ending my own life. I have struggled with depression throughout adulthood, and I understand now how Sheen and Dixie could have made the choices they made.
Almost twenty years have passed, and I often dream about Dixie and Sheen. I dream that I find them, in a crowd somewhere or while taking a walk. I dream that it was all a misunderstanding, and that they have been fine all along – just on a long, faraway journey.
I dream that finally, they are home.
