Erased and Exploited: My Life with a Brain Injury in the System

This post shares my experience in a way I hope will resonate with many survivors. If you’ve ever felt overlooked or mistreated by the system, this is for you. Our voices deserve to be heard.

I want to be open—no filters, no holding back. This is my truth and everything I’ve fought to say. If you want to know what it’s really like to survive, speak up, and challenge the system, here it is—raw and real. Now, let’s start at the beginning.

by Craig Sears

I often talk about what happened in my state, but this kind of thing happens everywhere.

Before the accident, my future was wide open, full of possibilities.

Then everything changed in an instant—a motorcycle crash without a helmet left me with a brain injury. I went from being a person to just a file in a system that could exploit or ignore me.

But I refuse to disappear. Every day, I fight against a society that forgets people like me—and I know I’m not the only one standing up.

What This Is About

• Part 1: How the system lets down people with brain injuries, and why genuine, hands-on support—not hollow promises—matters. Survival thrives on mutual aid, not institutions.
• Part 2: My personal experience with legal abuse reveals how the system protects itself—often at our expense. It’s clear that change is long overdue.

Part 1: The System Isn’t Built for Us

After my brain injury, the very organizations meant to help only made things harder. The actual battle wasn’t just recovery—it was facing the system’s indifference, misdiagnoses, and endless bureaucracy.

At 20, I had a good job, a loving family, close friends, a girlfriend, a couple of cars, and a motorcycle. Then everything collapsed. I woke from a coma strapped to a hospital bed, my life in shambles. People I trusted vanished. Overnight, I became “the problem”—just another case number. The loneliness was overwhelming.

My mom never gave up on me. She demanded answers when I couldn’t. My family’s support saved my life—but I know many survivors are abandoned and left to struggle alone in a system that fails them.

Survivors need each other. Actual connection—not bureaucracy—is what keeps us alive. A 2013 study in the journal Brain Injury found that survivors with strong personal support had better emotional health and quality of life. If you know someone with a brain injury, your support is crucial. If you are a survivor feeling isolated, try searching online for local or virtual support groups. You can also ask about resources at your rehab center or clinic or look for brain injury communities on social media platforms like Facebook. If nothing feels like the right fit, consider starting a small group yourself—most organizations are eager to help newcomers connect. Reaching out can make all the difference.

A brain injury doesn’t just harm your body—it disrupts your entire sense of self. Too often, the system treats you like a burden rather than a person, with misdiagnosis and neglect all too common. After my accident, doctors focused on my physical injuries but missed the brain trauma. Instead of proper rehab, I spent nine months in a psych ward—drugged and overlooked. I tried to prove I was still here, but nobody listened.

The CDC calls traumatic brain injury “the silent epidemic,” and Dr. Brent Masel, former National Medical Director at the Brain Injury Association of America, calls it a public health crisis.

This isn’t a rare mistake—it’s a pattern. Survivors are placed in the wrong facilities, denied appropriate help, and left to manage on their own. Dr. Ann McKee’s research at Boston University shows brain injuries are misdiagnosed as mental illness. Symptoms such as depression or personality changes are often wrongly attributed to psychiatric disorders rather than brain trauma.

It took months before anyone recognized my brain injury. Instead, I was mislabeled as “mentally ill” and sent to places that couldn’t help—chosen to save the system money.

After release, I had to relearn everything on my own. For years, I faced repeated arrests for behaviors caused by my injury and endured abuse no one should—attack dogs, restraints, forced medication, and solitary confinement.

Psychiatric hospitals aren’t designed for people with brain injuries, yet the system continues to treat us as if they are.

And I’m not alone. This story plays out for survivors everywhere, not just in my state.

As someone who’s lived through both traumatic brain injury and the mental health system, I can tell you they’re connected—but not the same. Too often, professionals and policymakers talk about “mental health” without understanding the brain or what TBI survivors go through. To understand care, integration, or solutions, one must first learn about brain injury. This includes its science, symptoms, and the overlooked or misdiagnosed real-life effects. Otherwise, we just end up with more of the same: survivors stuck in programs that don’t fit, getting the wrong treatments, and falling through the cracks. If we want true integrated care, it has to start with understanding the brain—not just mental health labels.

This misunderstanding leads to actual harm, not just bureaucratic mistakes. Closing hospitals like Fairfield Hills was supposed to be progress, but moving people isn’t real change. We need staff trained in brain injury care, not just new buildings. They closed Fairfield Hills, but before that, I was sent there myself—locked away in a place that didn’t understand or help people like me. When the hospital shut down, I wasn’t given freedom; I just got shuffled to other institutions and even prison. No matter where I went, the system still saw me as a problem, not a person.

That’s why I joined the lawsuit that led to the Acquired Brain Injury (ABI) Waiver. I learned about the class action while I was at Fairfield Hills during one of my involuntary stays, which motivated me to get involved. When I received services through the ABI waiver, it made a vast difference for me and for others. For a while, my life ran more smoothly—the waiver was built around the actual needs of people with brain injuries, not just a generic mental health approach.

But that progress didn’t last. The ABI waiver I relied on was cut, capped, and replaced by ABI Waiver 2, which shifted focus from brain injury to mental health diagnoses.

As a result, survivors like me were pushed into ill-fitting programs, and our needs were ignored once again. This isn’t just history—it’s happening now. Survivors continue to fall through the cracks, trapped in cycles of programs and institutions without specialized care, facing the same barriers:

• untrained staff
• endless bureaucracy
• the constant risk of being sent to a psychiatric unit or jail

For context, the original ABI waiver was created following a 1990 class-action lawsuit brought by the Connecticut Traumatic Brain Injury Association against state agencies and hospitals. The lawsuit challenged the state’s practice of placing people with brain injuries or intellectual disabilities into psychiatric hospitals where they couldn’t get the right treatment. The case argued for equal protection, due process, and disability rights, demanding appropriate, community-based care instead of warehousing survivors in the wrong facilities.

But even after all these years, the system keeps repeating itself. The fight—for real, specialized support and an end to this revolving door—is still going on.

Summary:

In psych wards and jails, I was stripped, restrained, medicated against my will, and left alone in isolation. These places are dumping grounds for people with disabilities. The Department of Justice says people with disabilities—many with undiagnosed brain injuries—are overrepresented in psychiatric hospitals and prisons. In some prisons, studies show that up to half the inmates have a disability.

A 2017 report by the National Association of State Mental Health Program Directors found that 60% of people with TBI are misdiagnosed with psychiatric disorders. This results in incorrect treatment and increased isolation. 40% face problems like poor oversight, broken complaint systems, discrimination, and retaliation for speaking out. The cycle keeps going—staff, police, and judges who don’t understand brain injuries make the same mistakes again and again. This isn’t just numbers—it’s my life.

Community services are meaningless if they continue to repeat the same failures. People with brain injuries deserve respect, genuine choices, and freedom from forced institutions.

We need:

• Independent oversight
• Effective complaint systems
• Strong enforcement of disability rights
• Protection against retaliation
• Well-trained staff
• Meaningful survivor involvement in reform

Legal advocacy needs to be strong and get results. What we need now is real action—not just empty promises.

If you’re a survivor or you support one, protect yourself:

• Document everything—incidents, decisions, conversations. It helps to keep a small daily notebook or a calendar, or to use your phone’s notes app. Try jotting down brief notes each day about what happens, who you talk to, or any problems that come up. If you have memory or thinking challenges, set reminders to write things down, or use voice memos if writing feels hard. Even if you can only write a few words or record a quick message, that is enough. Every small step counts, and there is no need to write a lot or get it perfect. You can also ask a friend or family member to help you record key details. Staying organized with simple tools makes a big difference when you need to explain your story later.
• Join local advocacy groups or survivor networks.
• Keep copies of your records and a timeline of what happened.
• File complaints with the right agencies.

Here’s the call to action: Protect your rights and help push for real change. Stay informed, speak up, and support policies that prioritize practical, compassionate care for brain injury survivors. Every voice and every action counts.

End of Part 1: Even when you try to protect yourself, the system has ways of coming after you.

Now we’re at the start of Part 2. Here’s how the system turned on me—up close and personal.

When those in charge decide you don’t matter, the system protects itself. I know because I lived it—thanks to Detective Jeffrey Holtz, the Bridgeport Police, and Judge McShane in Connecticut.

It started with a bogus traffic stop. Detective Holtz used a random car photo—no plate, no link to me—and invented a victim. He edited audio recordings to fit his story. The arrest report said I committed a crime on November 8, but I could prove I wasn’t even in Bridgeport that day.

Holtz’s story fell apart: the car wasn’t mine, the evidence was fake, and the paperwork described someone else. Still, the court kept the case alive. I filed motion after motion for an investigation—nothing happened.

The supposed “witness interview” was just more evidence tampering. Holtz wasn’t interested in the truth, only in covering himself. After years of delays, Judge McShane took over but ignored simple proof that the case was built on lies.

When you’re in the system—especially with a disability—your rights disappear. You’re stuck with public defenders who just go through the motions. The first time, my lawyer was supervising public defender Thomas J. Paoletta. I’d already proven my innocence to him, but he pushed me to take a plea deal. When I refused, I was sent for a psychiatric examination, which cleared me. Paoletta’s office dropped the case, and I was appointed a new lawyer, Peter Stark. About a year later, the case was marked “nolle prosequi”—meaning it could be reopened at any time.

And then it happened all over again. Years later, it was the same detective, the same police department, the same fake evidence. This time, I hired a private lawyer named Kevin Black. I had to file a complaint against him with the board of attorneys because he wasn’t defending me. After that, he got the case closed—but it still wasn’t resolved.

The third time, it was déjà vu: I kept all my documents and hired Kevin Black again, but once more, he did the bare minimum. I had to file another complaint with the board of attorneys. When he was removed from my case, the court appointed Thomas J. Paoletta. It was the same psychiatric exam, the same courthouse, the same result. Again, when I refused to take a plea deal, he dropped my case, and Peter Stark was assigned as my lawyer.

Every time, even when the evidence showed I was innocent, the case dragged on, was marked “nolle prosequi,” or just hung over my head—never settled, always a threat. It felt like my lawyers barely fought for me, while the system kept protecting itself.

They say the system is ‘connected,’ but living with a disability, I know what it’s like: disconnected, confusing, and impossible to navigate.

For three years, I demanded that the so-called victim and witnesses show up in court with real ID. Here we go again—they never did. Judge McShane set a trial date. However, when the court advocate presented no victim or witness, the case was marked “nolle prosequi.” This means it wasn’t dismissed but left unresolved, to be used against me later. That’s how the system hides police misconduct.

Despite all the evidence—my documents, therapy receipts, and witness statements—the authorities sided with Holtz and the Detective Bureau. The emotional toll of these legal battles, on top of my brain injury, is crushing. My experiences with Detective Holtz, lawyers like Paoletta, Black, and Stark, and Judge McShane show just how deep self-protection runs in the system.

If you know someone with a brain injury or disability, know this: the system can erase you in an instant. They’ll ignore facts, silence your voice, and wear you down until you quit. I lived it. But I won’t let them erase me. I am not their paperwork. I’m still here, naming names, demanding justice, and refusing to back down.

They count on us staying silent. I won’t. I’ll keep calling out Detective Holtz, Judge McShane, and every official involved. Survivors deserve better. No one should have to face this alone. We can demand accountability and actual change—together.

Turning Pain into Action

How do you fight back when the “victim” and “witnesses” don’t exist, and the system ignores the truth? I turned my pain into action. I was involved in the Connecticut class action lawsuit for ABI survivors and helped establish the ABI waiver. Despite this progress, ongoing advocacy is necessary because of the persistent revolving-door issue. By sharing my story and the program’s impact, I’ve helped other survivors feel less alone—and shown, in court and on paper, what happens.

I am not their paperwork. I am not their false accuser. I am a human being. I matter, no matter how hard they tried to erase me.

Support and What You Can Do

Don’t let fear stop you from seeking help. You don’t have to go through this alone—there are people and organizations ready to stand with you.

For Survivors:

• Connect with groups like the Brain Injury Association of America, BrainLine, or peer support forums.
• Keep detailed records. Know your rights under the ADA and ask for accommodations.

To get started with legal help regarding disability rights:

1. Identify the organization you want to contact:

• ADA National Network for information about the Americans with Disabilities Act.
• DREDF (Disability Rights Education & Defense Fund) for advocacy and education.
• Your local Legal Aid office for legal issues in your area.
• National Disability Rights Network (NDRN), which can also connect you to your state’s Protection and Advocacy agency.

Taking care of your mental health is essential:

• Set boundaries to protect your emotional energy and reduce stress.
• Seek therapy if possible; options include:
• In-person counseling or psychotherapy with a licensed therapist.
• Teletherapy or online counseling platforms for easier access.
• Sliding scale or low-cost therapy services if affordability is a concern.
• Explore alternative therapies such as mindfulness meditation, yoga, or art therapy.
• Connect with support groups (online or in-person) where people share similar experiences and can offer understanding and encouragement.
• Practice self-care routines like regular exercise, journaling, or spending time in nature.

For Family and Friends:

• Listen, help navigate the system, and stand by your loved one.

Remember, your story matters. Together, our voices are stronger.

As you read this, know that I’m speaking not just as someone sharing information, but as a brain injury survivor who has lived every part of this story. There may be gaps or perspectives I haven’t covered, and your voice matters.

To every survivor reading this: you have not been forgotten. This is written for you, by someone who knows what it’s like to feel invisible but refuses to be erased. If you’ve ever felt overlooked or struggled to be heard, you are not alone. Your story, your struggles, and your survival matter.

If you see something missing, have an experience to share, or simply want to connect, please:

• Comment below to join the conversation.
• Share your story in the way that feels right to you.

This conversation is strongest and most meaningful when it includes all of us living it together. Your experience is important—let’s hear it.

Last Word

To every survivor: You’re not alone. The system might not protect us, but we can protect each other. I’ll keep speaking out, demanding justice, and fighting for a world where we’re treated with dignity.

This is my story, but it speaks for everyone who’s ever been erased by the system.

We are not their paperwork. We are people. Our voices are here to stay.

If you’re fighting your own battles, keep going. Take care of yourself, reach out for support, and know that even the smallest act of sharing your story can help someone else. We’re stronger together, and our voices matter. Always remember never give up. This too shall pass.

Let’s keep speaking up—because change only happens when we refuse to be erased.