Out of the Ashes: A Story of Recovery and Hope

By Sallie Crotty

Out of the Ashes, an inspiring story of hope . . .

With Out of the Ashes: A Story of Recovery and Hope, Sallie Crotty offers a profoundly moving memoir told with unflinching bravery and insight. Her compelling story explores a topic that affects us all: mental health. Detailing a mid-life descent into debilitating despair, she brings the reader on a deeply personal journey. She reveals her struggles, time spent in a psychiatric ward, and how lacking a clear diagnosis almost led to her death. She also describes how proper care and receiving the right diagnosis and treatment can provide hope, stability, and a path to happiness.

​This inspiring memoir will help remove some of the stigma surrounding mental illness and encourage those suffering to seek treatment. Crotty provides hope for the many individuals diagnosed every year, their loved ones, and anyone interested in learning more about the lives of those who live with mental illness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group
• Release date: Jun 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781632995377

Book preview

Part I

The Hospital

Chapter 1

Welcome to My Rooms

It was 7:30 a.m. on Friday, March 30, 2007, and I disentangled myself from my bedcovers to stumble into the bathroom. I paused for only a moment to stare into the mirror. My dirty, stringy hair spread across my face and the circles under my eyes resembled dark half-moons. It was then that I registered how mad I had become.

Any alarm or desperation I felt quickly passed. The numbness which had become so familiar reasserted itself, smothering any emotion I may have had. My body was a cave and my mind felt like a shattered mirror of what I had just seen. Since I had abandoned my bed only to use the bathroom, I then dragged myself back to my haven. Surrounded by my ever-faithful cats, I began to plot. Just this morning my husband, who had tried everything to help me, posed the ultimate question: Would you rather your children have a mentally ill mother or one who’s dead? As I replayed the question in my head, I reached for the pen and a piece of paper from a tablet on my side table. I composed my suicide note: I love all of you so much, but I cannot go on this way.

I alternated between squeezing myself into a tight ball under the sheets and jerking my head out to check the clock as the minutes passed. In thirty-minute increments, I began to challenge myself to roll out of bed and move into action. My depression competed with my mania. Gloom and sluggishness strove to keep me stuck while agitation and flight of ideas propelled me to act. My psychiatrist had warned me of the perils of a mixed episode, and I was certain one had trapped me. At 10:00 I rolled my body to the right side of the bed, threw off the covers, and steadied myself to stand.

In my nightgown I stumbled to my purse on the floor, slipped out the car keys, and opened the bedroom door leading to our driveway. The car was parked there that day, not in the garage, and I wondered why. My mind, whirling with thoughts, could not remember the last time I had driven it. Like a sinister movie unfolding, it felt as though my car had been waiting for me, like a character behind the dark curtains preparing for its chance to finish me off. Even though I knew it would lead to something dreadful, I slid into it, backed out, and foresaw jumping from a nearby bridge into the traffic below.

Stopping at the end of my driveway, I pictured my body splayed under the bridge, my heart still beating. Too repelled by that image, I steered my car back into the garage and returned to the kitchen in hopes that I could die where I had lived. I crawled back into bed and ruminated about how to proceed. Hours later, I shuffled to the kitchen. Wishing I had a gun, I pointed my finger to my head, shot, and pictured the bloody mess that would be left behind on the linoleum floor. My breaths were short and shallow as I began to pace between the knife drawer and the chemical closet. The drawer and closet were within four feet of each other, but I raced back and forth to keep up with my urgency to decide.

Stay out of that closet. My mind echoed back to the warnings I had issued to my children over the years. Sensing my total agitation, my cats paced with me, uttering high, shrill meows. They knew I was dying. They knew they could not save me. Their apparent despair elicited a stinging moment of sadness from me. I leaned over to pet each one, and the three of us grasped that I was beyond salvation.

Returning to the knife drawer, I pulled out a butcher knife and carefully slid the blade across my abdomen. I did not cut myself. But, pointing the tip of the blade at the center of my lower abdomen, I dared myself to push in far enough to draw blood. Four different times I tried this, but I could not tolerate the idea of what might happen. I pictured blood oozing, perhaps even gushing, for too long as I lay on the linoleum floor. I contemplated how long it would take for me to die, if indeed it would even kill me. My mind was splintered by my fears: Was I recoiling from the gruesomeness of a bloody scene? Did I believe my attempt would be in vain? My agitation escalated as my suicidal ideations blurred my decisions.

I heard my neighbor’s children playing next door in their backyard. An agony scorched me—mind and body—as their high, joyful voices raised in song. They were with their mother, and she had joined in the play and laughter. I hid the knife in the chemical closet and decided on the ammonia. Deciding to swallow the fluid dictated a new resolve. I would not witness my body’s outpouring of blood, and poisoned sleep might help vanquish me. Already feeling a bit dizzy, I pulled out the large measuring cup and filled it. Preparing my cocktail consumed me with a unique comfort: I was finally in total control. I took a sip, and the ammonia scalded me. As it sped down my throat, sensations of forks coated with lava jabbed, seeping into all crevices and angles. Clutching my neck, I howled, ready to vomit. But I didn’t. I wandered into the living room where I could gather some sofa pillows and lie across the softest rug in our home, the Oriental carpet my husband, Mark, and I had inherited after my grandmother’s death. Now that I had done it, exhaustion consumed me, and I drifted into a faint sleep.

I barely heard the door open; it was my son and husband. They were in our bedroom. Where are you, Sallie? Mark cried. The darkness residing in our home kept him on edge. Mark rushed into the kitchen, and I knew he had discovered the open bottle of ammonia. He demanded, What have you done with this? Oh my God! What the hell have you done?

I’ve been cleaning, I replied from the floor. I had become such a lying bitch, yet there were no tears to reflect this shame. After pulling myself up by a chair, I staggered into the bedroom. I surveyed the scene: rows of unopened pill bottles were scattered across my dresser. A snag in the lace curtains gaped where I had hurled some keys one day. I feared what Mark would do with me. I saw him grab the phone. He locked himself in the bathroom, and I heard him spouting into the phone to my mother. I knew she would order him to send me back to the hospital, the only place to lock me up and hide me and my disease from those she feared judged me and my family. I knew he would surrender to her command.

I banged on the door and screamed, I will not go to the hospital! I am not going back!

Our son was terrified and crying, Daddy, let Mommy in! I looked down at my seven-year-old and saw his frightened eyes. His blue eyes connected with mine, but he did not reach for me. I knew he no longer recognized me or felt safe with me. I was frozen and overwhelmed with my failure as a mother. I could not kneel to hug him or reassure him. Mark stepped out of the bathroom and scooped him up. I knew Mark planned to rush out and deliver him three blocks down to my mother’s.

I’ll be back for you, he said as he left. My mind accelerated to an unbearable speed. I felt trapped. Peering at my dresser mirror, my dilated and panicked eyes flashed back at me. I grabbed only my car keys, yanked open the door leading outside, tottered to my car, and began my escape. Fear overwhelmed me.

I could not slow my mind, and the car could not seem to fully contain me. It was five o’clock traffic on a Dallas Friday afternoon, and I was weaving in and out of cars, keeping a close eye out for police cars, ambulances, EMT vehicles, sirens, and flashing lights. I would not fall into the hands of law enforcement or any other force attempting to deter my plans. I considered driving into a tree or pulling over. I didn’t just want to end the pain. I wanted to annihilate it.

As I headed east on Northwest Highway, the scenery metamorphosed. I was speeding further and further away from the neighborhoods I knew. I careened past a park decorated with graffiti. I was scared and desperate, and my deceased father’s voice intruded in my mind, Sallie, it’s not your time. Pull over. Stop.

Pulling into a front spot of a run-down restaurant’s parking lot, I decided to go in and call Mark. Unlocking the car door, I stepped out and leaned against it while inhaling deep breaths of the late afternoon air. It failed to soothe my throat, but I braced myself against the side of my car as I wobbled toward the restaurant’s front door. Inside, the proprietor stood behind a front counter. With no wallet or cell phone, I begged, Please, can I use your telephone?

He stared at me, and his eyebrows raised enough for me to know he saw the anguish and panic across my face. He did not ask if I needed a table or if someone were there waiting for me. The room was thick with darkness and the smell of Happy Hour Friday drink specials and cheap appetizers. His calloused hand pushed the phone my way, and I dialed Mark’s cell phone number.

On the other end, my husband pleaded with me to speak with the police officer at our home. The police had issued a six-county APB to find me. Still convinced I was in control, I ordered, Meet me at the hospital, and abruptly hung up. I did not see the proprietor to thank, so I spun around, strode to the door, and raced back to my car. Confusion gripped me as I tried to determine if I would return to the hospital and how I would get there. Although I was not certain how to reach my home, I decided to try. At two different red lights, I honked my horn and shouted for help to get the attention of strangers. They helped me navigate my way home.

Sixty minutes later, I had returned to my neighborhood. I was still not sure whether I would return home or not. Instead, I stopped a man out walking with his daughter and asked to use his cell phone. Are you alright? he asked. Nodding, I once again called my husband. Hearing his desperation on the other end shook me. His urgency to save me overwhelmed me, and I could feel my mind’s volatility waning. After I hung up, sadness of my treatment of him crept through me. My mind was cluttered with how to proceed: I did not want to be in the hospital, but I did want to be with him. I knew I could not return home as I would be taken from my bedroom again. Resignation overcame me, and I drove the car around the block and headed to the hospital. Twenty minutes later, I was in its parking lot. Pulling my hand like a reluctant child, Mark led me to the emergency department. You are so sick, he uttered, anger mixed with sadness resonating through his voice. Guilt shot through me; it must be so difficult to be married to a mentally ill person.

Before I had rushed out of the house, I had thrown on a black tee shirt, jeans, and brown loafers. My tee shirt was from my grandmother’s alma mater, Vassar College. I had bought it at the bookstore on a visit there one summer, and on the front, it read, So many books . . . so little time! My teeth were chattering. The chilly March wind wrapped around my bony frame, and I wanted Mark to pull me in closer, but I told myself I knew I didn’t deserve it. He was already three steps ahead of me, pulling me on what felt like an angry leash to a place he could deposit me at least for the night. I was wondering how he would get both cars home that night, who he would call to confide this part of our story in. Ambulances and patrol cars were the only vehicles I noticed lingering in front of the emergency department. Dread overcame me as I feared the worst: Would the doctors confine me to a straitjacket for my behavior today? I glanced at my watch; it was 6:45 p.m. It had been three hours since I had swallowed the ammonia. As I looked up, I noticed a few medical personnel wandering across the street toward the parking garage. I speculated that their shifts might be complete for the day.

The first person I noticed when I walked into the waiting room was an attractive woman waiting in a chair near the doors. She stood and approached us. Paranoia seized me as I watched her eyes move from Mark to me. I sensed she had been waiting for us, that someone had given her a physical description of me. I surmised she was a colleague of the social worker, Rebecca, who had facilitated my Intensive Outpatient Program the last three weeks. She was with another woman, a blond, probably twenty-something, who seemed nervous, biting her fingernails. Maybe Rebecca and the other social worker had been mentoring her. I classified her into the only kind of social worker I had met: neatly coiffed and dressed, usually blond, a woman who might belong to an elite campus sorority.

Sallie, Rebecca called me. She says you broke the contract with her. You didn’t show up for I.O.P. today, the woman waiting for us stated. She was looking me up and down, and I was wondering what she was trying to detect about me. I clasped my hands together behind my back to try and mask the trembling and stared at the vending machines about six feet behind her. I realized it had been twelve hours since I had eaten, and only then did my body remind me with pangs of hunger.

I’m fine, I told her. I’ll be fine; just need to go home and get some sleep. I shouldn’t have skipped the I.O.P. I need to go home. I’ll miss seeing my psychiatrist on Tuesday and my good friend passing through town tomorrow . . . Mark nodded as I trailed off because he knew this was the truth. But I could sense his resentment: he glared at me because I knew he felt everything he had done for me seemed futile. He spoke again with the social worker, but I had wandered away and could not hear their conversation.

When he glanced my way, he saw me pointing at the vending machines. He scanned my face, and he was biting his inner left cheek, a nervous reaction we both knew. I sensed my face had grown paler and I felt limp—two signs that my blood sugar had dropped. He was always quick to remember how my mother kept small boxes of Sun-Maid raisins in her purse when I was a child to feed me at a moment like this one. He also knew I usually had a purse with a granola bar in it. My complete inability to function at home had placed him in a parental role. Even in the hospital waiting room, my infantile state compelled him to care for my basic needs. Watching him fiddle in his pocket for some change for some peanut butter crackers and a dollar bill for a Diet Coke reminded me how many times people had tried to jolt me out of my denial of how sick I was; how I needed to get better for myself, my marriage, and my children. But I was defiant. After he walked to the machines, pushed the buttons, and handed me the snacks, he steered me to a chair. However, I would not sit.

As I devoured the crackers and sipped on the soda, I watched Mark speak with the intake person at the admission desk and present his insurance card. The receptionist glanced my way, nodded at him, and I heard one of the nurses call my name. The social worker approached me again because I was staggering across the room and muttering that I needed to get home. I was running my fingers through my hair; it fell thickly in natural waves past my shoulders. I realized it had been at least two months since I had had it cut, so as I twisted parts of it through my fingers, I could feel the jagged split ends.

The social worker guided me toward the nurse, and I pleaded, Please let me go home. Get me out of here. She tightened her grip on my right arm as I repeated this high-pitched protest. I wanted to know her name, but I didn’t bother to ask. It didn’t matter. She was the next warrior to enter combat with me.

No, no, the social worker said. You broke your contract with Rebecca and we need to get you checked in. I’ll be staying here with Mark until that happens.

I peered over at the woman still seated, and she looked down. She must be a rookie, I thought, since she couldn’t look me in the eye. I wondered if this was her first emergency department psychiatric crisis. It didn’t matter because I had already lost the battle. Too many others were ready to admit me.

After the nurse took my weight and blood pressure, she requested a urine sample. I wondered if she suspected drugs or alcohol running through my system. These requests were routine, but when she ushered Mark and me into the next room, the questions began. Since my previous discharge in mid-February, how long had I felt depressed and anxious? Why did I leave my house after a suicidal gesture? Could I estimate how much ammonia I ingested? When was the last night I had slept more than four hours? Her lab jacket was tight around her body, and her voice had an unusual tone to it: urgent, yet also chirpy, as though she wanted to connect with me but knew that may be pointless. My mind felt clouded by the ammonia, and I couldn’t keep up with her questions. It did not matter because Mark began to answer them for me. I interrupted him, trying to redirect the dialogue back to me. I lied and dodged some of the questions such as Did you intend to drink more of the ammonia? because my anxiety was intensifying and I was desperate to return home.

Mark sighed and pulled his chair closer to the nurse and said, She’s sick. You need to listen to me. Damn it, she won’t tell you what’s been going on. She won’t tell you how depressed she’s been, about her recurrent insomnia, her medication noncompliance. I am convinced she wanted to die today. The police were looking for her in six counties, but she finally agreed to meet me here. We’ve already been here three times before today. Two times to the ER for meds and a work-up and one for a six-day inpatient stay. She can’t come home. I need your help.

The nurse made notes in what looked like the beginning of a new medical chart for me, and then walked us back to an exam room. I was struck by how business-like medical personnel could treat dire health matters. Ask some questions, take some notes. She did not attempt to console Mark. I wondered how routine my situation was in this ER. Then, as if in a relay game, she passed us off to another nurse.

This woman’s brown eyes surveyed my face and she blinked frequently. She asked me to undress, put on a hospital gown and socks, and place all my clothes into the plastic bag she had given me. I felt awkward. I felt cold. I felt betrayed by Mark. He saw me shivering, stepped out of the curtained room, and returned with a blanket for me. This nurturing ameliorated my anger. Guilt engulfed me: Could I love him as unconditionally as he loved me?

As I swung my legs across the exam table and faced him, I began my pleas with him: Mark, please find another wife. Get another wife. I’m nothing. You need more. Please, Mark, please. Tears were streaming down his sunken cheeks as he reached for the bandana in his jeans’ back pocket. It was a red one. He has so many, and he uses them whenever he dresses casually. I leaned toward him and placed my right hand on his right shoulder and began again: Please, Mark, get out of here. Go find another wife.

He pushed his chair back from the exam table. I knew hearing the first plea pained him enough because he knew I believed he should abandon me and that I had become a burden to him. His shoulders shook as he cried. We also both knew I was perseverating, a medical term used by mental health professionals to describe their patients’ obsessive, repetitive speech patterns, the repetition often compounding a problem. One of my psychiatrists had taught us this term.

A doctor stepped into the room and then locked eyes with me. He gasped in recognition of me. I looked away as he said, I’ll get another doctor. He’ll be in in just a minute. Shame flooded me. I had known him well but did not know he worked at this hospital. He had gone to high school with me and dated my best friend. In high school, I had been popular, together, and an unlikely student to end up in a psych ward someday. I felt nauseous. I squeezed my arms around my stomach and looked toward the