Work on Monday dragged by; lunch with Erin went okay; and at the end of his shift, he drove home for dinner, played a game of foosball with his boys (he lost), then drove to Doc's.
"I see you're driving again," Doc said much too cheerfully after he'd sat down.
He shrugged his coat off. "Yeah, as of yesterday. First time in…ten days. Dizziness is mostly gone."
"That's good. How's work going?"
He sighed. "I thought thirty days on modified meant thirty calendar days, but I re-read the paperwork today, and it's thirty work days—that means five more weeks instead of three until I get my shield back!" He cursed under his breath, then pinched himself when he realized he'd been to confession yesterday and was supposed to be trying to stop cursing.
Doc leaned forward, was quiet for a minute; then he said, slowly, "I get that you're frustrated about extra time on modified. However, I think those extra weeks will give you some benefits when it comes time to re-take your fitness-for-duty eval." He paused. "Do you want to know what those are?"
"Sure," he whispered.
"First, you'll have been on the Zoloft for two extra weeks, which means more time for it to work, and a chance for Forsythe to see how it's helping you. Second, it means more sessions with me—ten instead of six—which means four more hours for you to talk through and work through things. What it all boils down to is: more time to get you in the best emotional shape possible for your second fitness-for-duty eval."
"I…I don't mind talking with you, Doc. I can't say I enjoy talking about feelings and memories and crap; but you don't try to b.s. me."
Dawson looked up at him. "Thank you for that, Detective Reagan. Speaking of 'feelings and memories and crap,' I'd like you to tell me how your weekend was—but focus on your mood, how you were feeling and what you were thinking."
"Really, Doc? All this touchy-feely crap, crying because I remember things…it's stupid."
Doc leaned forward. "Emotions are a part of human existence, Danny; every one of us, from the toughest detective in your precinct, to the toughest gang member on the street, has them. Don't try to tell me that the only emotion you feel is anger. You love your wife, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Does loving your wife make you less of a Marine, less of a man, less of a tough detective?"
"No."
"Is allowing yourself to feel love for your wife stupid?"
"No."
"So why should feeling sadness for the men you lost, for John Russell, be stupid?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"It's not stupid, Danny, and it doesn't make you any less of a tough cop. It just means you're human." Doc paused. "What 'touchy-feely' crap and memories have made you cry?"
"Our session Thursday. Yesterday, I cried during Mass; couldn't stop seeing the faces of the men I lost."
He let out a shaky breath. "The weird thing, though…I've been a mess; but on Saturday, at the boys' hockey game…I cheered, I congratulated them when I won; but it was all an act; I felt…dead inside."
Doc leaned forward. "Let me make sure I'm hearing you correctly. On one hand, the sadness and guilt are overwhelming; on the other hand, you feel empty at times when normally you would feel happy. Did I hear you right?"
"Yeah."
"Some of that ambivalence is from your depression; some of it is from the anti-depressant, and will wear off as you adjust to the med."
Doc was quiet for a few minutes, then said, "You've been coming in for four weeks, and we've talked through some pretty major things; but now I have a question for you. What is your goal for therapy? What do you want out of these sessions, Danny?"
"I want to get off modified and back to my job."
"Dig a bit deeper, Danny."
His shoulders slumped. "I want things to go back to the way they were before John Russell killed himself…hell, before I caught that case."
"Good job, Danny. How were things before that case?"
He blinked. "I don't…I can't remember."
"Well, then tell me what's been different since Russell's death."
"I'm tired, Doc. The last couple weeks…I had a few tough cases, but I just…I didn't get the satisfaction I normally get from catching the perp, getting information out of him, or getting a little girl safely home to her parents. I felt…nothing. Almost like…what does it matter, now that John Russell's dead?"
"Why should his death mean that nothing matters anymore?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. It just does."
"Danny…Corporal Russell's death wasn't your fault."
He didn't say anything, and Doc got up, walked over to the small fridge next to the coffee machine, opened it, and took out two small water bottles. He handed one to Danny, then sat back down.
"Had John already decided to kill himself by the time you walked onto that roof?"
He nodded, opened the water bottle and took a long drink.
"Did you tell him to jump, push him off the roof?"
He flinched at that image. "No."
"So…John letting himself fall was an act of his free will?"
"Yeah."
Doc took a sip of his water. "When a person has made up his mind to do something, how easy is it to get him to change his mind?"
"Not very easy."
"Therefore, John Russell decided to kill himself, and his death is not your fault."
He drained the water bottle, set it down, and leaned his chin in his hands. "I see your point, Doc…it makes sense…it's logical…it's just…I can't…I just don't know why I should care anymore."
"You don't know why you should care about what, Danny?"
"Anything," he whispered.
"What about Linda and the boys?"
He blinked. "What about them?"
"Can you honestly tell me you don't care about them?"
He caught his breath. "I…I didn't say that, Doc."
"You implied it, when you said you don't know why you should care about 'anything.' You know they love you, right?"
He nodded. "I don't wanna hurt them," he whispered.
Doc leaned forward, locked eyes with him. "Then that's where we'll start. If you don't want to hurt them, then fight this—for Linda, for Jack, for Sean! Find one little part of you that cares enough to fight the darkness because you don't want to hurt your family."
He shuddered. He knew somewhere, buried under the numbness, he had half a smidgen of…not-wanting-to-hurt-his-family; but was it enough? "Why does it matter?"
"It matters because you do not deserve to spend the rest of your life trapped by your PTSD and depression. You deserve healing, Danny."
He flinched, looked at his watch. 9:15. "We've run over."
Doc glanced at his own watch. "Yes, we have, but we'll come back to this topic Thursday. In the meantime, I have something for you."
Doc rose, walked over to his desk, and picked up some pamphlets, handed them to Danny. "These are some self-help strategies for depression—exercise, sunshine, a regular sleep schedule, leaning on your family. I'd like you to read over these with Linda, pick two or three that you can incorporate into your daily routine, and tell me about them on Thursday."
He shrugged. "Sure, okay, whatever. Any other homework, Doc?"
Doc sighed. After a few minutes he said, slowly, "When you get home tonight, do something fun with your boys. Look at their reactions, their body language, and ask yourself…ask yourself if they love you, if they trust you, and if you want to injure that trust by ending it all. When they go to bed, ask each of them—directly—if they love you."
He huffed. "Really, Doc?"
"Yes. Then go hug your wife."
He nodded, stood up as Doc said, "I'll see you Thursday, Danny. Call me if you need to before then."
"Copy that. Thanks, Doc."