✍️ Profiles and Reviews
This section presents detailed profiles and reviews of individuals and institutions connected to my experiences. Each profile has been carefully written to reflect truth, evidence, and lived reality — not to retaliate, but to document. The purpose is to highlight patterns of abuse, neglect, or institutional failure that have harmed not only me, but others who may be silent or unseen. Included here are profiles of known perpetrators, along with evaluations of first responders, medical staff, and government agencies whose actions—or inaction—shaped the outcome of these events. My goal is transparency, not vengeance: to hold systems accountable and to help ensure that what happened to me does not happen again.
Evaluation of Gov. Juan F. Luis Hospital
Evaluation of Juan Luis Hospital — Jan/Feb 2019 Stay
As experienced by the patient, Martha.
I came to Juan Luis Hospital because I was poisoned — not once, but repeatedly, by members of my own household. I told the staff this clearly, and I told them again and again. I told the intake nurse. I told the ER nurse. I told the female police officer who brought me in. I told them that I had been drugged and assaulted and that this last time, they had tried to kill me.
But the hospital did not treat me for poisoning.
They treated me like a psychiatric case — without any proper diagnosis.
Instead of compassion, I received contempt.
Instead of medical investigation, I received mockery.
Instead of listening, they dismissed my words as the ranting of a “crazy woman.”
I watched, helpless, as a young woman on staff told the police officers, “She crazy.” I heard one of the officers reply, “Something not quite right with her.” And just like that, I was categorized. Branded. Dismissed.
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They ignored my allergies. They ignored my clear mind. They ignored the red band on my wrist that warned against penicillin.
They brought me food that was tampered with — food that made my tongue swell. I had to use my own charcoal to survive.
When I cried for help, I was watched like a threat.
If I walked, someone followed.
If I went to the restroom, someone stood outside.
And I knew — if I protested too much, if I said too clearly, “You are treating the wrong illness,” — they would lock me away.
There was a room there with no windows, no voice, no dignity.
I heard a girl crying in that room, begging to be let out. The staff laughed and said she’d stay in there until she shut up. That was the level of care given to the mentally ill.
And when a woman brought papers for me to sign, saying they were for insurance, I discovered the truth: They had written that I had voluntarily checked myself in as a psychiatric patient.That was a lie.
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A signature trap.
And I signed it — with a fake name — just to get out alive.
When I later requested my medical records, they told me no record existed.
No report.
No treatment log.
No proof that I had ever been there.
This was not just neglect.
It was erasure.
And I believe it was intentional.
Juan Luis Hospital failed me — medically, ethically, and legally. They refused to protect me from further harm. They empowered my abusers with silence and disbelief. They treated me for an illness I did not have, and ignored the one I came with.
I still get nightmares. And not just from what was done to me in the yard. The trauma inside that hospital — the fear, the gaslighting, the cruelty masked as care — still lives in my nervous system.
I hope one day this place will reckon with what it did. I hope it will change its protocols. I hope it will learn to listen to women who speak, even when their stories are hard to hear. Especially then.
Because the next time someone shows up poisoned and scared,
They deserve something I never got:
Real care.
Real help.
Real protection.
PROFILE - Dr. Evadne Sang
Trapped in the ER: Treated for the Wrong Illness
I woke up in the morning, and they brought me breakfast. I ate it. Not long after, I saw a woman in a doctor’s uniform talking with the staff at the open desk area near my room. As she started walking toward me, I could read her body language. From the way she moved and the expression on her face, I sensed deep hostility — as if she were thinking, “I’ll teach that ungrateful woman a lesson.”
And that’s exactly what she tried to do.
She came into my room and said, “Let me tell you something: don’t bite the hand that feeds you. And people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Your relatives are out there to see you!”
“I don’t want to see them,” I replied quietly.
“You don’t want to see them?” she said, surprised. “They’re waiting for you.”
I repeated, “I don’t want to see any of them.”
She told me what medication she planned to give me and turned to leave. I tried to explain — to tell her I was there because I’d been poisoned, not because I was mentally ill — but I couldn’t get the words out. She looked at me with contempt and aggression, then left the room.
I began to cry.
Here I was, trapped in this hospital, watched constantly. If I wanted to use the bathroom, someone came with me. If I stepped into the hallway, someone followed. And if I ran, I knew they’d catch me — and lock me down.
There was one room in particular. No windows. A heavy door — six inches thick, it seemed — with a small square glass peephole set too high for me to see through. I prayed they wouldn’t lock me in there.
I suffer from claustrophobia. If they had locked me in that room, I would have died from fright.
I believe there were several of these rooms, because I heard another patient — a young girl — crying and begging to be let out. Her voice trembled with fear. I heard one of the nurses respond in dialect: “She staying in there till she shut up.”
That girl wasn’t “crazy.” She was scared. She wanted help — not punishment.
What kind of treatment is that?
If the people who design this kind of mental health care were placed in one of those rooms themselves — just for two hours — I believe they’d change their approach. At the very least, put bars on the doors so the person can see outside and talk to someone.
This isn’t an exaggeration. Even now, I tremble when I think about it. Chills come over me.
And here’s something else I believe — something no one talks about. I believe many people labeled as mentally ill are really just suffering from unresolved fear, grief, or even something as simple as nutritional deficiency. What if, instead of rushing to sedate them, we gave them the care of a dietitian, a safe space, and the kindness they’ve been missing?
No, I’m not a doctor. But I am a “thinkor.” And I know what I lived through.
I wasn’t crazy. I was poisoned.
And they didn’t treat me for poisoning. They treated me like I was out of my mind — and they didn’t care. That’s the part that still haunts me.
Martha
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PROFILE - Dr. Wayne Merchant
His Actions Toward Me
I entered the ER at 00:52. My room was only a few steps away from the doctor’s station, but Dr. Merchant never came to see me. He never looked at me, never asked me a question, and never checked my condition in person. Instead, he read from the triage nurse’s note and made a mocking remark: “Can a 93-year-old man rape anyone?” Those words alone told me he was not there to protect me, but to dismiss me.
At 1:25 — about 33 minutes later — he wrote in my record that my case was “urgent, Level 3.” That entry gave the appearance of urgency, but no urgent care was ever provided. I was ignored while he stamped labels on paper.
His Medical Decisions
Dr. Merchant had the authority to order tests and to direct my care. Yet he failed to order the most critical test: toxicology. I had reported poisoning, but he never investigated it. Instead, he ordered routine labs that were incomplete and unusable, and when those results failed to provide answers, he let the psychiatric narrative take over.
His desk was directly opposite my room. He saw me every day and knew I was not what they were labeling me. Yet he never corrected the false psychiatric frame. He set the template for my wrong diagnosis and allowed it to stand.
His Role in My Silencing
By ignoring my voice, mocking my testimony, and withholding the tests that would have confirmed poisoning, Dr. Merchant played a central role in silencing me. His decisions and his words shifted my case from a medical emergency into a psychiatric dismissal. His failure was not just neglect; it was betrayal.
My Overall Assessment
Dr. Merchant failed in his duty as a physician. He mocked instead of listening, avoided instead of investigating, and labeled instead of healing. His actions gave cover for abuse to continue and for my suffering to be written off as delusion.
Again, the evidence of poisoning and abuse was erased, and a false psychiatric label was forced on me. But God preserved me, and that is why I can speak the truth now.