A short novel of my experience. Thank you for reading.
FEAR: False Evidence Appearing Real. An ex-girlfriend once wrote that on my forearm. Fear pervades almost every aspect of my life. I limit my actions, to a point where I feel safest taking no actions. I fear that any normal, day to day action will trigger a flashback of or, even worse, a recurrence of a bad experience. In this stasis or limbo, I am unable to move forward or in any direction.
In 2008—I forget the month, much less time of the year—I was assaulted and mugged. Three young gentlemen, in a concerted action, struck me in the back of my head. I was not rendered unconscious, but was knocked to the sidewalk. As a result of bracing myself for the fall, I fractured my right index finger and left hook of hamate. As I was on the ground, the three gentlemen surrounded me. I rolled from my front side to my back, and glared at them. One of them held my cellular phone, which had fallen from my breast pocket, and declared, “We got your phone.” I started to rise, at which moment the gentlemen decided to run. I chased after them for about two blocks, until they dispersed. I asked several witnesses in the neighborhood if they knew who the gentlemen were or saw where they had fled to. The only responses were “no” and shrugged shoulders. Moments before the incident, I had purchased several glass bottles of malta and other snacks from a bodega. Despite having an extended conversation in English with the cashier, when I returned and asked to use the phone to call 911, he claimed he didn’t understand me or the English language. When I asked him if he could call 911 for me, he shrugged. I left the store and walked to a Dominican restaurant on the same block. The woman behind the counter did not speak English, but saw that I was in distress and handed me the restaurant’s cordless phone, and had no problem with me leaving the store with it, to give the 911 operator the address. Police came. I relayed the events to the officers, and they drove me around the neighborhood, looking for the gentlemen. The search was fruitless. I declined their offer to drive me to the nearest hospital, because I felt no physical pain. They did not take any type of report of the incident, but gave me the address of the local precinct and told me I would have to return to file a report. Hours had passed, and there was much swelling and pain in both hands. I went to a hospital emergency room close to where I lived. Despite my relaying of all events to triage and every doctor and nurse I interacted with that day, the only exams performed were X-rays of both hands and wrists. They treated my fractured right index finger and said, “Mr. Bertran, I assure you, nothing is wrong with your left hand.” I went to police precinct I was directed to and relayed the events of the assault and mugging to a detective.
As I did not have health insurance at the time and had no desire to accrue medical expenses for these injuries, I filed a claim with the Crime Victims Board. My claim was approved. I started seeing a social worker, as therapy. Not long after that, I was told that my claim was rejected, because my account of events did not match those on the police report. The report indicated that I stated that I was walking down the street, dropped my cellular phone on the ground, and an unknown male black ran by, picked up and ran off. Eventually, with the help of the Crime Victims Board, I was interviewed by a higher ranking detective and made a new “unofficial” police report. The CVB was satisfied with this. After a follow up for the fracture index finger, one doctor agreed that my left wrist may have been broken, and gave me a prescription for an MRI. When I went in for the results of the MRI, the doctor patronizingly assured me that nothing was wrong with my wrist, but to be on the safe side, he would look at the results and show me. He returned to the examination room, straight faced, and said, “Mr. Bertran, your wrist is definitely broken.” My left wrist and forearm were then wrapped in a cast. Two weeks later, for a follow up, they told me that a cast was not effective in immobilizing the wrist and hand, and told me that it shouldn’t have been put on in the first place. They removed the cast and gave me a prescription for a special brace. I filled that prescription and scheduled an appointment with an orthopaedist I trust. Around this time, the social worker from the CVB realized he wasn’t being much help and recommended I see a psychiatrist.
Both the orthopaedist and the hand specialist he referred me to confirmed that the hook of hamate on my left wrist had been fractured. The orthopaedist prescribed Tramadol, which I discovered I am allergic to. The specialist informed that it had healed out of place, and that my only options were to deal with it or surgically correct it. He advised against the surgical route, because the risks far outweighed the benefits, and because the injury was not to my dominant hand. Eventually, I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist. After hearing only a rudimentary account of the events, he told me that I was depressed, and prescribed Zoloft to treat the depression. After taking the Zoloft for a few days, I attempted suicide, by ingesting the remaining Zoloft and Tramadol. I woke up several weeks later in the hospital.
As a result of this, I have developed a distrust for people in the medical field and police. Since 2013, I have had three stays at three different psychiatric wards. In most of my interactions with doctors, I have noticed that what I say is not listened to. I have been coerced to take medications, told how I am supposed to feel, and when I disagree, that I have been told that I have a problem with authority and an anger problem. When I have told psychiatrists that I don’t like the way medications are making me feel or pointing out that I am experiencing allergic reactions to such medications, I am told that what is going on is psychosomatic and not real. Swelling and difficulty breathing are real. It wasn’t until the second and third stays at psychiatric wards, that I was diagnosed with PTSD and that my reactions to medications are real and that some are indeed allergic reactions.
I’m at a point where I don’t know what to do. The current girlfriend is fully aware of what I’m going through and offers emotional support. She promises that she will not abandon me or give up on me. I am too unsure about what is going to happen with my life. I am afraid to even get treatment. I don’t know what to do. I feel that I need someone who is not judgmental to hold my hand and walk me through the healing process.
This is the first and final draft. There are errors. They will not be corrected.
The dates of events and order of events may not be correct.
FEAR: False Evidence Appearing Real. An ex-girlfriend once wrote that on my forearm. Fear pervades almost every aspect of my life. I limit my actions, to a point where I feel safest taking no actions. I fear that any normal, day to day action will trigger a flashback of or, even worse, a recurrence of a bad experience. In this stasis or limbo, I am unable to move forward or in any direction.
In 2008—I forget the month, much less time of the year—I was assaulted and mugged. Three young gentlemen, in a concerted action, struck me in the back of my head. I was not rendered unconscious, but was knocked to the sidewalk. As a result of bracing myself for the fall, I fractured my right index finger and left hook of hamate. As I was on the ground, the three gentlemen surrounded me. I rolled from my front side to my back, and glared at them. One of them held my cellular phone, which had fallen from my breast pocket, and declared, “We got your phone.” I started to rise, at which moment the gentlemen decided to run. I chased after them for about two blocks, until they dispersed. I asked several witnesses in the neighborhood if they knew who the gentlemen were or saw where they had fled to. The only responses were “no” and shrugged shoulders. Moments before the incident, I had purchased several glass bottles of malta and other snacks from a bodega. Despite having an extended conversation in English with the cashier, when I returned and asked to use the phone to call 911, he claimed he didn’t understand me or the English language. When I asked him if he could call 911 for me, he shrugged. I left the store and walked to a Dominican restaurant on the same block. The woman behind the counter did not speak English, but saw that I was in distress and handed me the restaurant’s cordless phone, and had no problem with me leaving the store with it, to give the 911 operator the address. Police came. I relayed the events to the officers, and they drove me around the neighborhood, looking for the gentlemen. The search was fruitless. I declined their offer to drive me to the nearest hospital, because I felt no physical pain. They did not take any type of report of the incident, but gave me the address of the local precinct and told me I would have to return to file a report. Hours had passed, and there was much swelling and pain in both hands. I went to a hospital emergency room close to where I lived. Despite my relaying of all events to triage and every doctor and nurse I interacted with that day, the only exams performed were X-rays of both hands and wrists. They treated my fractured right index finger and said, “Mr. Bertran, I assure you, nothing is wrong with your left hand.” I went to police precinct I was directed to and relayed the events of the assault and mugging to a detective.
As I did not have health insurance at the time and had no desire to accrue medical expenses for these injuries, I filed a claim with the Crime Victims Board. My claim was approved. I started seeing a social worker, as therapy. Not long after that, I was told that my claim was rejected, because my account of events did not match those on the police report. The report indicated that I stated that I was walking down the street, dropped my cellular phone on the ground, and an unknown male black ran by, picked up and ran off. Eventually, with the help of the Crime Victims Board, I was interviewed by a higher ranking detective and made a new “unofficial” police report. The CVB was satisfied with this. After a follow up for the fracture index finger, one doctor agreed that my left wrist may have been broken, and gave me a prescription for an MRI. When I went in for the results of the MRI, the doctor patronizingly assured me that nothing was wrong with my wrist, but to be on the safe side, he would look at the results and show me. He returned to the examination room, straight faced, and said, “Mr. Bertran, your wrist is definitely broken.” My left wrist and forearm were then wrapped in a cast. Two weeks later, for a follow up, they told me that a cast was not effective in immobilizing the wrist and hand, and told me that it shouldn’t have been put on in the first place. They removed the cast and gave me a prescription for a special brace. I filled that prescription and scheduled an appointment with an orthopaedist I trust. Around this time, the social worker from the CVB realized he wasn’t being much help and recommended I see a psychiatrist.
Both the orthopaedist and the hand specialist he referred me to confirmed that the hook of hamate on my left wrist had been fractured. The orthopaedist prescribed Tramadol, which I discovered I am allergic to. The specialist informed that it had healed out of place, and that my only options were to deal with it or surgically correct it. He advised against the surgical route, because the risks far outweighed the benefits, and because the injury was not to my dominant hand. Eventually, I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist. After hearing only a rudimentary account of the events, he told me that I was depressed, and prescribed Zoloft to treat the depression. After taking the Zoloft for a few days, I attempted suicide, by ingesting the remaining Zoloft and Tramadol. I woke up several weeks later in the hospital.
As a result of this, I have developed a distrust for people in the medical field and police. Since 2013, I have had three stays at three different psychiatric wards. In most of my interactions with doctors, I have noticed that what I say is not listened to. I have been coerced to take medications, told how I am supposed to feel, and when I disagree, that I have been told that I have a problem with authority and an anger problem. When I have told psychiatrists that I don’t like the way medications are making me feel or pointing out that I am experiencing allergic reactions to such medications, I am told that what is going on is psychosomatic and not real. Swelling and difficulty breathing are real. It wasn’t until the second and third stays at psychiatric wards, that I was diagnosed with PTSD and that my reactions to medications are real and that some are indeed allergic reactions.
I’m at a point where I don’t know what to do. The current girlfriend is fully aware of what I’m going through and offers emotional support. She promises that she will not abandon me or give up on me. I am too unsure about what is going to happen with my life. I am afraid to even get treatment. I don’t know what to do. I feel that I need someone who is not judgmental to hold my hand and walk me through the healing process.
This is the first and final draft. There are errors. They will not be corrected.
The dates of events and order of events may not be correct.
