” Ln November 13, 2015, I was at the Bataclan and I was injured by two bullets in the leg. The evening started like a normal concert. I was with a friend, we drank beer to get the first part through, then we entered the room. We sat at the back, on a small platform near the exit. The concert was cool. Suddenly we heard the sound of firecrackers. We told ourselves we would attend the American show. Then there was a scream and the lights came back on. When I heard that they were doing this for Syria and Iraq, I immediately understood that it was an attack. The year was 2015. A few months before that Charlie HebdoHyper Cacher, connection is created instantly.
Very quickly, I was hurt. It felt like I had been hit by a hammer on my calf, the pain wouldn’t go away. I wake up a little, I look at my leg: I was hit. A boy who laughed with me during the concert collapsed next to us. He died on us. We use our bodies to protect ourselves if there is another shot. I was facing the stairs that led to the balcony. I saw one go up, another follow, then go back down. He shot the boy in front of me in the head and went back upstairs. There, we understand that this is our chance, that we will not have another chance. There was a crowd moving towards the toilets, we let ourselves be carried and went out. My friend put me in the lobby of the building and started looking for someone willing to take me to the hospital. Help hasn’t arrived: he stopped an Uber while he was racing. He accepted and took me to Saint-Antoine hospital.
The psychological impact is difficult to lose
I was taken care of quickly. The injured victims from the terraces and the Bataclan have not yet arrived. They put me in what they called the “bunker”. I saw stretchers, X-rays, and doctors walking by saying: “We won’t be able to save this one… This one may have to be cut off.”
At around 7am, I was told that I was the next person to have surgery. They thought I was only hit by one bullet that tore half my calf. Two days later, they operated on me again and discovered there was still a bullet in my pelvis. We concluded that I took two bullets: the first tore through the calf, the second entered through the thigh. After this second operation, I asked to see my friend. I saw him and asked him what happened. “Did that really happen?” I looked at my feet: it wasn’t a nightmare. From my genitals to my ankles, I wore large bandages. It took almost three months before I saw my feet. Ten years later, I have a scar 80 centimeters long. When I’m tired, I’m weak, I compensate on the left, I go to an osteopath to fix my hip. But the biggest impact is psychological.
Before, I was always out of the house: cinema, bars, concerts… I was happy and carefree. Now it’s day and night. I rarely go to concerts anymore and avoid terraces. At the cinema, I asked if the film contained guns, gunshots, explosions. When fall arrives, it feels like there’s a countdown to November 13th. I avoid planning anything in the days after this date, as if I won’t miss it. My life has not stopped, but has slowed down.
After the attack, I immediately felt the need to speak out, but my psychological journey was in disarray. I had a psychologist who fell asleep while I was talking, another psychologist who told me to be happy living and watching Charlie Chaplin films. I had one thing that saved me, thanks to EMDR, a psychological technique discovered after the Vietnam War to help soldiers overcome the trauma of war. It is based on finger movements and allows you to blur memories that are too difficult to store. Unfortunately, he had to retire. Then I found one who tried to grope me and another who I had to entertain for fifty minutes. I told him I was sorry.
The feeling of guilt that won’t go away
Guilt sticks to our skin. We mourn for ourselves, for our loved ones, we mourn for being alive, we mourn for the family of Pierre Innocenti, the son who died to me… We mourn for the dead: Why them and not us?
To find
Kangaroo today
Answer
Compared to ten years ago, the situation is better. There are good days and bad days. There is also joy, and especially Apolline, my daughter. The gunshot wound made it impossible for me to get pregnant naturally. I had to do in vitro fertilization (IVF) which was successful the first time. My partner and my daughter are my oxygen, but being a parent brings additional worries that are more important to me. I’m scared of him at school, I’m scared of his teacher being attacked, I’m scared when he’s on school trips or when we go to the movies.
I blamed myself because I thought it was my fault if something happened. When he told me he was going to a concert one day, my first instinct was to say no. I have been very alert since the attack. He became “my very vigilant friend.” We hold each other’s shoulders, we support each other every day. He’s still there. »
