TRIGGER WARNING: This is a very, very dark chapter—mentions of suicidal thoughts.
Wednesday and Thursday he went on "power-walks" with Linda in the early morning sunshine; trudged his way through eight hours a day of desk-duty, and meals that he didn't want to eat; and after work Thursday, he drove to Doc's.
He'd gotten there just in time for his 6:30 appointment, but he sat in his car instead of going inside.
Maybe he should call Doc, tell him something had come up at home and he couldn't make it.
If he went home early, he would have to tell Linda he'd cancelled his appointment—after she had told him she was proud of him for sticking with therapy.
If he didn't go home early, he'd have to find something to do for an hour, then lie to his wife about having gone to therapy—not a good idea.
It definitely wasn't a good idea for his health and well-being if he had an hour to kill.
The only option left was to go inside.
If he told Doc the truth, that would be the end of therapy.
If he didn't tell Doc the truth, that would be the end of him.
With a sigh, he got out of his car.
Inside, he greeted Doc, sat down as carelessly as possible. "Hey, Doc, thanks for letting me mess with your schedule."
"No problem, Danny. It's good to see you. How'd your doctor's appointment go?"
He shrugged. "Got a prescription for the nausea. The doc asked if it might be psychosomatic, and I told him he didn't know the half of it. He says he won't clear me to return to full duty until I put all twenty pounds back on."
"It probably is a pretty good mix of side effects from the Zoloft, and psychosomatic nausea—your body rejecting food because your mind thinks you don't deserve to live."
He flinched, kept his eyes on his shoes. Coming here had been a mistake. He should have told Doc he couldn't make it.
"Danny, where's your head at?"
He shook his head. "What does it matter?"
"It matters to me, Danny."
He raised his head to glare at the younger man. "Why the hell do you care, Doc? First time I met you, I insulted you, I interrupted your group session…why the hell do you care?"
"I care because you deserve healing, Danny."
"Dammit, Doc, no I don't! I don't deserve healing, and I sure as hell don't deserve to be alive!" He stood up so quickly his chair toppled over, and he stalked over to the door. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come."
His hand was on the doorknob when Doc said, "If you leave now, like this, I will call 911 and have you admitted for a 72-hour psych hold. I will also call Dr. Forsythe and tell him that you are not fit for duty and that you need to remain on modified assignment indefinitely. I don't think you want either of those things to happen, Danny."
He whirled. "A 72-hour hold? What the hell, Doc?!"
"You just told me you're feeling suicidal. Talk to me, Danny; tell me what happened between Monday night and now, let's talk through this. Let me help you."
He stalked back to the overturned chair, picked it up, and sat down. "If I tell you where my head's at…all the dark thoughts I've been having…you're not going to want to help me."
The pain in Danny's voice made Alex wince, but he kept his voice calm as he said, "I do want to help you, Danny. I'd like you to tell me about the dark thoughts. Let me bear them with you."
Danny was quiet for several minutes; then, as if reading from a script he'd memorized, he said, "I should have died out there in that godforsaken hellhole. Every day I'm back here—alive, with my wife and my boys, living a pretty comfortable life—is a betrayal of the memory of the guys we lost over there."
He paused for a breath. Then, very quietly, he said, "I should be six feet under—and no stupid happy pills and no stupid therapy is going to change my mind. This is a waste of time."
Alex leaned forward. "Danny, look at me, please."
Slowly, the detective raised his head. The blank look in his eyes made Alex shudder. "You are not a waste of time, Danny. You deserve my time here in this office. You deserve healing. You deserve to live."
He could tell his words were just bouncing off Danny, so he decided to try a different tactic. "Four and a half weeks ago, you left your family's Sunday dinner to try to save the life of a fellow veteran—because you understood what he was going through. You put a lot of emotional effort into trying to talk John Russell down safely. Why did you do that if he thought he didn't deserve to live? Why didn't you just let him jump?"
Danny flinched. "Because it was my job. Because Tommy needed his father. Because John didn't deserve to die; he needed help."
"So, you don't think John was correct in thinking that his family would be better off without him?"
"No."
"You're saying John was making an error in judgment. Does that mean he was crazy?"
Danny sighed, shifted in the chair. "No; he was suffering from PTSD; he wasn't thinking clearly."
"You used the word 'suffering.' Was John in pain?"
The detective nodded.
"I know you hate to admit this, Danny, but you are in pain also. Is it possible that you are making an error in judgment when you think you deserve the depression and the PTSD?"
He shrugged. "You sound like my wife. Linda said pretty much the same thing Monday night."
Alex let a smile flit across his face, and rose to go get a bottle of water. "Well then, what do you need me for?"
Danny tried to breathe, but his lungs wouldn't expand.
If Doc ended these sessions…he didn't think he could go on. As pathetic as it sounded, being on modified—not having his gun—and being able to talk to Doc about the memories and the flashbacks and the nightmares, were the only damn things keeping him alive right now.
His ears were ringing and his heart was pounding. He needed air but he couldn't breathe, and it was making black spots dance before his eyes.
"I'm going to touch you, Danny," said a voice. The hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he took a gasping breath. Doc was sitting next to him. "I'm sorry, Danny; I should not have teased you like that; that was unprofessional of me. I'm not going anywhere. Take a breath, Danny."
He took a shaky breath. "Why…? I didn't…"
"I heard your breathing change, and I could see you were starting to panic."
"What…what just…?" He shook his head.
"You had a panic attack, Danny. I am sorry for causing it. Can you tell me why the thought of ending these sessions right now made you panic?"
"Because…I won't have anyone to talk to about the memories and the flashbacks, and I… can't handle them."
"Yes, you can handle them. I know they're scary and I know they hurt, but there are techniques for grounding yourself, for distracting yourself. I'll remind you of those later. Try to match my breathing, okay?"
He nodded, focused on the rise and fall of Doc's shoulders. Slowly, his breathing settled. "Sorry," he muttered.
"It's okay, Danny."
Alex waited until Danny's breathing had settled before he asked, "Is it just the memories and the flashbacks that are making you think about ending your life?" When the older man didn't say anything, Alex asked carefully, "Danny, how bad would things have to get for you to take your own life?"
Danny looked shocked that he had had the temerity to ask.
"I want to know so we can make a game plan to keep things from getting that bad."
"I don't…the fight with Jamie, fighting with Linda…"
"So, losing your family is a trigger. What did you fight with Linda about?"
Danny crossed his arms over his chest—a defensive posture, Alex noted. Slowly, painfully, he told Alex what had happened.
When the detective stopped speaking, Alex said carefully, "It sounds to me like she was scared stiff for you. She shouldn't have jumped to that conclusion, but her anger…was hiding her fear. Remember we talked about that?"
Danny nodded, and Alex went on, "You know Linda loves you."
"But I keep…" He shook his head. "I'm not the tough cop she married; I'm a pathetic, panicking…mess."
"Having emotions means you're human. Allowing yourself to feel them is a lot healthier than stuffing them inside or drinking yourself into oblivion. I am proud of you for calling me the other night instead of turning to what sounds like an old coping mechanism and drinking yourself numb."
Danny looked away at that. "Tomorrow's Valentine's Day and we were going to have a quiet romantic weekend at home; my dad was gonna take the boys; but she's not going to want to spend time with me."
"Has she been avoiding you this week?"
"No. We talked about our fight Tuesday. She's worried about me, but she shouldn't be; I'm supposed to worry about her—that's my job."
"Marriage is a two-way street, Danny; give-and-take; you can't give all the time without taking. Let her worry about you. I want you to call her right now, tell her what you just told me about your fears of disappointing her. We'll see if her response proves your theory that she's tired of you."
Danny glared at him, but pulled out his phone, dialed. "Hey, Danny, what's wrong?"
"It's…I'm still with Doc, I…I'm…." He shook his head. He couldn't lie to her and tell her he was okay. "Doc wanted me to call you, homework assignment before I leave class."
He let out a shaky breath. "I…I'm not doing too good tonight, Linda." The words tripped off his tongue before he could stop them, and he cursed. So much for keeping her from worrying. "I…I know I'm not the tough macho cop you married, and I'm sorry you have to put up with me being an emotional wreck. I…"
"Daniel Reagan, listen to me, and listen well." The ice in her voice stopped him in his tracks. "I love you. All of you—the tough cop, the hurting veteran, the struggling detective. You're the love of my life, Danny, no matter what. What do I need to do to prove that to you?"
"Can you…?" His voice broke, and he cursed. "I can't drive home tonight, Linda. Can you…come?"
"I'll be there as soon as possible. I'll call Joanne, see if she can watch the boys tonight; I'm sure they'd love that. Let me talk to Doc. I love you, Danny."
"Love you more," he whispered. "Hang on." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Linda's coming here. She wants to talk to you."
"Do I have your permission to tell her what we've discussed tonight?"
He nodded.
Doc took the phone, walked into the corner. His voice was low, and Danny couldn't make out what he was saying.
Then Doc was next to him, pressing the phone into his hand. "You did the right thing, Danny, asking Linda to come here. Tell me why you didn't think you should drive home."
He swallowed hard, then slowly opened his mouth to let Doc bear a little bit more of his pain.
A/N: If you're drowning, please reach out!
Hotline number: 1-800-273-8255.
You matter and your life is worth living!