The first movie I went to see after being released from prison was Superman Returns. Even though I had eight years of probation hanging over my head, I was confident I would never step foot inside a prison cell again. I had a stable, paycheck-to-paycheck job, and was even able to save a few dollars while living with my grandmother. That movie night was one of my first splurges in freedom—large soda, large popcorn, a footlong hotdog, and a box of Raisinets. The movie itself? Let’s just say it was disappointing, but to me, it didn’t matter. I was a free man, doing what free men do.

But what people don’t often talk about is the mental storm that brews beneath the surface for many of us who’ve been incarcerated. On the outside, it looked like I had things together. On the inside, I was wrestling with demons I didn’t fully understand, and I was too embarrassed to seek help. It wasn’t just about staying out of trouble—it was about learning to live again.

After the movie, I found myself on Fremont Street in Las Vegas, a place known for its bright lights and excitement. I had $25 burning a hole in my pocket, feeling lucky as I headed to a little hole-in-the-wall casino called the Gold Spike. That’s when it happened. A police cruiser pulled up, lights flashing, and two officers jumped out to detain a group of young Black men. My whole body tensed up immediately, and my heart raced.

I knew what was happening—my body was in full fight-or-flight mode—but I didn’t know why. It was like my brain and body were having two separate conversations. My brain was telling me, “Just turn around and walk away,” and my body, against all logic, obeyed—but not in the way I wanted. Instead of walking, I started a slow jog, faster than a walk but far from running.

Before I knew it, I heard someone call out, “Hey, you!” Another cop came running toward me, grabbing my wrist. Instinct took over—I snatched my hand away and said, “Don’t touch me again!” At that moment, in my mind, I was back in prison, and my fear had taken control.

The officer was clearly taken aback but remained calm. He told me I fit the description of a suspect in an assault. A crowd began to gather, and I could feel my body trembling uncontrollably. The cop explained that I wasn’t under arrest but that he needed to “cuff” me while he sorted things out. For anyone who’s been in the system, those words trigger a deep, primal response. I shook my head and told him, “You’re gonna need backup.” I was ready to fight for my life. He unholstered his gun.

The Fear of Being Bound

It’s called Merinthophobia—the fear of being bound or tied up. It can stem from a traumatic experience, and for many ex-felons, it’s not just a phobia, it’s a survival response. When you’ve spent years in chains, it leaves a mark on you that goes far beyond the physical. The symptoms? Anxiety, irregular heartbeat, trembling, and an overwhelming urge to escape—exactly what I was going through at that moment.

In my mind, I wasn’t just avoiding handcuffs—I was fighting for my dignity, my freedom, and my life. That’s what Post Incarceration Syndrome (PIS) does to you. It rewires your brain, making you see threats where others might see routine situations. You’ve spent years under a system that strips away your control, and the idea of being cuffed again—especially when you’ve done nothing wrong—feels like losing everything all over again.

The Silent Struggles of Ex-Felons

When you watch videos of police interactions, you might see someone refusing to comply. What you might not realize is that for many of us, those moments aren’t about defiance—they’re about survival. It’s a mental breakdown playing out in real-time. For a lot of ex-felons, we’re not just battling authority—we’re battling the trauma of incarceration. The fear of being humiliated or assaulted, the loss of control, the feeling of being back in a system that stripped you of your humanity for so many years—it’s enough to trigger anyone.

Post Incarceration Syndrome isn’t something you can see like a scar or a tattoo. It’s the weight of the past hanging on your shoulders, always there, even when you’re trying to move forward. The constant fear of slipping up, of being dragged back into a world you thought you’d left behind—it can be paralyzing.

That night, I believed the officer wanted to cuff me either to physically or sexually assault me. It’s not paranoia—it’s the reality many of us face after years behind bars. We’ve experienced things you’d never expect, from humiliation to abuse, and that fear never really leaves you.

Not even Superman could save me from the effects of PIS. It’s a battle that happens in the mind—a war between doubt and hope, fear and the desire to move forward. I was free, but in many ways, I was still trapped in a prison of my own making.

But I’ll never forget the Army lieutenant who stepped in that night. She saved me. This brave woman told the officer, “This man is not a threat. This man is having a mental crisis.” She recognized what the officer didn’t—that I wasn’t running because I was guilty, I was running because I was scared. Her courage likely saved my life, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.

As I continued on my journey, I realized I wasn’t alone. I’ve met dozens of ex-felons who fight the same battle every day. Post Incarceration Syndrome is an invisible enemy, but it’s one that can be conquered. It takes time, patience, and support—whether that comes from loved ones, professionals, or people who’ve walked a similar path.

We may not have capes or superpowers, but we have something just as important: the strength to keep moving forward. Every step we take is a testament to our resilience, our determination to build a better life, and our belief that we can shape our own destinies.

So, to anyone out there dealing with Post Incarceration Syndrome, know this—you are not alone. The journey might be tough, but every step forward is a triumph. Keep going, keep believing, and one day, you’ll look back and realize just how far you’ve come.

By Michael C Emanuel

Born in (Timmonsville) South Carolina Michael was raised by his maternal grandmother in Brooklyn, New York. In 1988 he entered the United States Army and served 3 years. Discharged under honorable conditions Michael found himself back on the streets of Brooklyn during the height of the crack cocaine epidemic. Like many inner city youths, Michael became involved in distributing illicit drugs and was soon to find himself sentenced to 120 months inside federal prison. It is here, inside the United States Federal Penitentiary Lompoc that Michael developed his unique writing style. With a passion for film Michael narrowed his writing niche to original screenplays. Michael now resides in Henderson, Nevada with his wife Cristalle, son Michael and his daughter Marcella.