From Hospital Bed to Prison Cell: A Survivor’s Fight for Justice

A Fairfield Hills Hospital survivor’s account of wrongful institutionalization, the landmark lawsuit that established the Acquired Brain Injury (ABI) Waiver, why the program is vital yet deeply flawed, and how psychiatric hospitals were replaced by prisons as the new warehouse for people with disabilities.

Craig Sears is a traumatic brain injury survivor, disability justice advocate, and plaintiff in the landmark Conn. Traumatic Brain Injury Assoc. v. Hogan class-action lawsuit. He focuses on ABI waiver reform and criminal justice reform.

A System That Could Trap Anyone

I woke up strapped to a hospital bed, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, unsure if it was night or day. I was twenty—a Connecticut kid with a future ahead of me—until a single moment changed everything. A motorcycle accident. A traumatic brain injury (TBI). Suddenly, I was no longer a person, but a problem for the system to manage. What happened to me could happen to anyone—and it is happening, every day, across America.

This is what happens when the system abandons people—and why national reform is urgently needed.

To journalists, policymakers, and professionals: if you care about justice, you need to read this.

Why Our Voices Matter

My name is Craig Sears, and I am a traumatic brain injury survivor. My life has been shaped by misdiagnosis, systemic injustice, and a relentless fight for disability rights. Survival, advocacy, and reform aren’t just words—they define my reality. This isn’t a plea for pity. I share my story because too many people with brain injuries are being crushed by the same broken systems that hurt me.

Traumatic brain injury (TBI) is a disruption of normal brain function caused by a blow or jolt to the head. The Acquired Brain Injury (ABI) Waiver is a Medicaid program designed to provide home and community-based services for people like me, instead of forcing us into institutions.

Living with a TBI means enduring isolation, misunderstanding, and constant struggle. It means being punished for things you cannot control—losing jobs, relationships, and freedom because of symptoms the system refuses to understand. I remember thinking, “If I don’t speak up, who will?” There are thousands of us, but our voices are often lost behind locked doors and institutional walls.

This is Bigger Than Connecticut

I’m from Connecticut, but this isn’t just a local issue—it’s happening across the country. The laws and systems that allow the mistreatment and warehousing of people with disabilities are nearly identical everywhere. What happens here happens everywhere. People are exploited nationwide, and with a simple online search, anyone can find evidence of the same patterns and struggles in every state.

This is a widespread crisis that demands attention and change. Traumatic brain injury is a leading cause of disability in the United States. An estimated 5.3 million Americans live with a long-term disability from TBI, yet most states refuse to treat it as the urgent public health crisis it is. Only 22 states offer Home and Community-Based Services (HCBS) waiver programs specifically for TBI and ABI—and even then, the rules, services, and number of people helped vary dramatically.

Connecticut, Kentucky (which has both acute and long-term care waivers), and Massachusetts run more than one waiver, but everywhere you look, there are cracks people with brain injuries keep falling through. Maine, Maryland, Montana, Oregon, Texas, and Utah have some form of ABI or TBI waiver; however, even in these states, the system often fails to acknowledge the reality on the ground.

With the evidence and science clear, you’d expect brain injury to be a central focus in disability policy. Instead, most states lump it in with mental health, ignore the facts, and turn a blind eye. That’s the backdrop for what happened to me—and to thousands of others.

The Fairfield Hills Legacy: Warehousing Disguised as Care

I watched a video about Fairfield Hills Hospital in Newtown, CT, and every word about neglect, abuse, and the absence of real medical care or rehabilitation rang true—I lived it. State officials tried to portray the closure of these hospitals as “progressive, community-based care” or merely a budgetary measure. That’s simply not true.

What actually happened was that people with intellectual disabilities and brain injuries were warehoused in places never intended for us. No real treatment. No rehabilitation. No way out. Just endless warehousing.

I was one of those people—wrongfully locked away, denied services, stripped of dignity and autonomy, and forced to survive in conditions that would break most. I remember a man in the next room, also a brain injury survivor, who used to repeat, “I just want to go home. I just want to be heard.” We both felt invisible.

That’s why I joined the class-action lawsuit, Connecticut Traumatic Brain Injury Association, et al. v. Nancy W. Hogan et al., filed in 1990. This was a group lawsuit—where many people with similar claims joined together—to challenge the state’s practice of warehousing people in institutions and demand community-based alternatives. If you’re skeptical or want to see the facts for yourself, you can find official case records by searching for “Connecticut Traumatic Brain Injury Association Clearinghouse case 439” online, hosted by the Civil Rights Litigation Clearinghouse.

After years of fierce fighting, we secured a partial settlement in 1995 that led to the closure of Fairfield Hills and Norwich Hospital. As a result, some of us were transitioned into community settings through the creation of the Acquired Brain Injury (ABI) Waiver Program—a program designed to provide real support outside of institutions. But the legal battle continued until 2002, and ultimately, the state retained too much control. The system remained deeply flawed.

The truth is, closing hospitals didn’t set us free—it just changed the location of our confinement.

The New Warehouse: Prisons Replacing Hospitals

Connecticut didn’t stop warehousing people with disabilities—it simply changed the address. Instead of crumbling state hospitals, now it’s places like Garner Correctional Institution (Garner CI) in Newtown—the very jurisdictional court system sent me there after Fairfield Hills closed. If Garner was full, they sent me to Osborne CI for a time, then back again to Garner, which sits on the same grounds as Fairfield Hills. Before that, it was Connecticut Valley Hospital.

In all these places—hospitals, psychiatric wards, prisons, jails—I was stripped, restrained with four-point ties, forcibly medicated, and left in cells with nothing but a mattress for days, weeks, sometimes months. Words can’t capture the horror. Imagine One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but crueler, more isolating, and with no hope of release.

And this isn’t just about hospitals or psych wards. Prisons and jails are now the default mental health system—not only in Connecticut but nationwide. A 2017 study found that people with disabilities are three times more likely to be incarcerated than those without. Disabilities are criminalized instead of supported with actual services and care.

But in the end, the state kept all the power and left us betrayed. My recent fight with law enforcement proved just how little has changed. They only changed the warehouse address. Once you’re in their system, it’s almost impossible to prove anything—because nobody stands up for you, not the public defenders, not the courts, not the legal system itself. You’re left to fight for yourself while the system closes ranks and protects its own.

I’m not the only one. This is the story of thousands. I’ve met mothers who lost sons to solitary confinement, and friends who never came out of the system alive. The cycle keeps repeating.

The Cycle of Polite Dismissal

Every time I try to get this story out—whether it’s to a journalist, policymaker, or advocacy group—I hear polite words and empty promises. But nothing changes. The system keeps turning.

Survivors like me don’t need more polite deferrals or empty encouragement. We need real action, real accountability, and for someone in power to finally say, “Enough. We’re standing with you, and we won’t let this be ignored any longer.”

Until we break the cycle of polite dismissal—until someone refuses to just pass the buck or soften the truth—nothing will change. And nothing has. That’s why I keep telling this story, even when it feels like shouting into the void. Because the silence and inaction are part of the problem. If you’re reading this, I’m challenging you not to look away, not to just say the right words, but to actually do something.

Misdiagnosis, Institutionalization, and Abuse

After my accident at age 20, I went from living the American Dream to months in a coma and years of brutal recovery. My TBI went undiagnosed for months. Instead of proper care, I was placed in a locked mental health ward meant for psychiatric patients—not in brain injury rehabilitation. Instead, we’re labeled with mental illness—a tactic to redirect funding—then warehoused in places unfit for brain injury care. That’s not care—it’s budgetary manipulation that destroys lives.

For nine months, I fought for my freedom and identity against a system that didn’t understand my injury. After my release, I was isolated, stuck in unsafe housing, and struggling to regain basic skills. The system refused to recognize my brain injury and instead treated me like a criminal.

I was arrested and institutionalized repeatedly for behaviors caused by my TBI. “Assaulted” doesn’t begin to describe what I endured. I was punished for having a brain injury—not a mental illness. The criminal justice and mental health systems offered punishment, not help or healing. I survived abuse and neglect—from being attacked by police dogs to being restrained and medicated in institutions and prisons. My story is the story of countless TBI survivors who have been tossed aside, and families who have watched their loved ones disappear behind bars or into group homes. I’m done being exploited and used as a pawn by the system.

The Legal Trap: Catch-22 for Survivors

From my experience, the law and the jurisdictional system sometimes take advantage by pushing you into a “program” instead of actually fighting the facts, even when everyone knows it’s nonsense. You end up stuck with it on your record, and in my case, they’d often suggest a mental health-related program. And if you take it, you’re screwed—but either way, you’re screwed when it comes to accessing services.

Then, when you fight back, and they realize you aren’t actually mentally ill, they just send you to prison instead. It’s a true Catch-22: you’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t. The real issue is that this isn’t about mental illness—it’s an injury. But there’s no real care for it, and no one to speak up for you. That lack of understanding and support leaves you trapped and without proper help.

I remember sitting in a courtroom, shackled, thinking, “How did I get here? What else can they take from me?”

Through it all, they can make it seem like nothing’s wrong. But either way, you’re trapped in a system that just doesn’t work. There is no real escape when the system is set up to keep you down.

Fighting Back: The ABI Waiver and Its Flaws

But I refused to give up. With my family’s support, I rebuilt my life and found purpose in advocacy. I joined the lawsuit that established the Connecticut ABI Waiver—a community-based program designed to support people with ABI/TBI outside of institutions. That victory proved that change is possible when survivors refuse to be silent.

The ABI Waiver provides care coordination, supported living, vocational services, and daily assistance. However, as someone who has lived through the system and fought for these services, I have to be honest: the program remains deeply flawed. The same lack of accountability, transparency, and respect for disability rights persists, holding people back instead of helping them truly move forward.

All good things come to an end. Over time, the situation in Connecticut has grown even more complicated due to shifting state policies and politics. The state originally had a brain injury rehabilitation waiver, but it was capped and eventually closed with the creation of ABI Waiver 2, which now operates primarily as a mental health waiver. This shift means that funding intended for genuine brain injury rehabilitation is now redirected under the guise of mental health services.

The CT Brain Injury Support Network and other advocacy groups were founded by survivors and their families to address the lack of resources and to fight actions like proposed changes that could jeopardize the ABI Waiver 1 program, which provides crucial home and community-based services. Many people don’t realize that I was part of the CT brain injury support network and attended every state meeting when ABI Waiver 2 was being created, and ABI Waiver 1 was being cut off. I spoke out many times at the state Capitol against these changes. When I speak, I do so directly—without the hypothetical language policymakers often use to justify their actions or downplay problems that are real and urgent.

I know that once you lose those services, there’s no way to get them back—no matter what you do. As a result, losing access to the services of ABI Waiver 1 is permanent. Unless you’re willing to subject yourself to further exploitation by the state and be reclassified under mental health criteria, you have no chance of restoring those supports. Even then, there’s no guarantee you’ll get the help you need, and there’s a high risk you’ll end up institutionalized again. In short, the system leaves many people trapped and without real options.

The state refuses to fund what we truly need. Instead, people are labeled with mental illness so funding can be redirected, and are then placed in settings that cannot adequately address brain injuries. That’s not care—it’s budgetary manipulation that ruins lives.

Here’s just some of what I’ve seen:

• No independent oversight for transparency or accountability
• Inaccessible and ineffective grievance procedures
• Frequent discrimination, with denied accommodations and barriers to justice
• Retaliation and loss of services for speaking out
• Lack of proper training for staff, providers, law enforcement, and judges
• Exclusion of participants from meaningful decision-making about their own services

We deserve better than this.

What Needs to Change

What would real justice look like? Imagine a world where no one is forced into an institution because of a brain injury, where every survivor and family member is greeted with respect, and where services are built around the needs and dreams of the people they serve—not the convenience or budget of the state.

So what do we actually need?

• Real, independent oversight and accountability
• Effective, accessible grievance procedures
• Enforcement of federal and state disability rights laws
• Protection against retaliation and coercion
• Comprehensive training and public awareness for all involved
• Meaningful involvement of participants in service delivery and policy decisions
• Ongoing legal advocacy and action

Securing community-based services isn’t enough if those services replicate discrimination and coercion. We fought to leave institutions—why must we fight just as hard to be treated with dignity in programs designed to help us?

Ongoing Battles with Law Enforcement

But my battles with the justice system didn’t end with the ABI Waiver. I was falsely accused, set up, and framed by law enforcement. Fabricated evidence and concealed misconduct became routine experiences. Even when charges were dropped, records sealed, and accountability avoided, legal loopholes always favored the system.

One of the worst is the “nolle prosequi” loophole. In my case, this maneuver was used three times in the same jurisdiction—the same police station, the same group of officers, and the same system. Even after I presented proof in court that the police had acted improperly, they simply exploited this loophole to make it all disappear. It’s a get-out-of-jail-free card for the system, letting them dodge responsibility and sweep the truth under the rug.

This is exactly what gives them the power to keep putting people like me in psych wards and prisons—because when nobody is ever held accountable, they can keep locking us up wherever it’s easiest for them, not where we actually belong or what we truly need. That’s how they keep avoiding accountability—not just for what they did to me, but so they can continue exploiting and taking advantage of people, disability or not.

I’m done being exploited and used as a pawn in their system. So, I fought back. I maintained a detailed paper trail, including court records, evidence of police and judicial misconduct, and all other relevant documents I could obtain. I shared it with advocates and policymakers at the state and national levels to demand real change and protect others from experiencing what I did.

Because of police lies, they did everything possible to lock me up—but I exposed their misconduct. I reported what the police and courts did, but they ignored it and did everything they could to hide the truth. And it wasn’t just the police or the courts—it was internal affairs, police commissioners, oversight boards, policymakers, state government—all of them. Every level closed ranks to protect themselves and bury what happened.

This isn’t just about one bad cop. It’s a systemic shield that protects misconduct rather than the truth. When police and prosecutors are protected by legal loopholes and a lack of transparency, anyone can become a target—disability or not. I continue to document and speak out—for real accountability and reform—not just for myself, but for every person trapped in this broken system.

This Isn’t Just My Fight

No two brain injuries are alike, but what unites us is the need for understanding, support, and justice. Our stories prove the system still fails us and challenge those in power to do better. Our voices matter because we know what real reform looks like—not empty promises or budget-driven closures, but genuine community support and accountability.

The story of Fairfield Hills isn’t just history—it’s a warning. Closing hospitals didn’t free people with disabilities; it just moved us to a different cage. The Department of Corrections has become the new warehouse, and the cycle continues. Even the ABI Waiver—our hard-won alternative—repeats some failures we fought so hard to escape. If you’re reading this, you’re part of the solution. Don’t let this warning go unheard. Nothing will change until survivors are heard and centered in these systems. Every program must respect our rights, dignity, and autonomy above all.

To Fellow Survivors, Families, Allies, Policymakers, Professionals, and the Media

Never give up hope. You are not alone. We must continue raising our voices, demanding accountability, and fighting for a system that truly respects every person living with a brain injury. If you’ve faced similar struggles, share your story, reach out, and speak up. Families, caregivers, and allies—don’t look away. Policymakers, healthcare professionals, and lawmakers: you have the power to make a difference. Read this. Listen. The more we speak up, the more we can change. Journalists, investigators, and media—if you want the real story, talk to survivors. This crisis needs a national spotlight.

What can you do?

• Contact your legislators and demand independent oversight of disability services.
• Share this story and others—raise awareness in your community.
• Insist that survivors are included in every conversation about reform.
• Support and donate to advocacy groups fighting for brain injury survivors.

The first step? Listen to survivors. The second? Fund and enforce real solutions. Imagine a world where no one is forced into a cell or an institution for having a brain injury—where dignity and autonomy aren’t negotiable. This fight isn’t just mine. It’s ours. We need unity and real reform—now. This crisis is urgent. Change must happen now—not tomorrow. I believe it will—if we refuse to stay silent.