He hadn't been able to look Doc in the eye since the younger man sat down at the kitchen table—all of two minutes ago. This was their first session since Danny had gotten home from the hospital, and he was still waiting for Doc to explode at him.
"How are you feeling physically?"
"Like artillerymen are shooting rockets in my head, and someone's stabbing me every time I breathe." His arm felt the best—as long as he wore the sling and didn't move his arm.
"You were prescribed the narcotic for a reason, Danny. It won't help if you won't take it."
He sighed. "Linda talked to you, didn't she?"
"No, but if you were taking it you wouldn't be in this much pain. You're pale, you're sweating, you're breathing shallowly, and you're trying to shade your eyes from the light." Doc stood up, turned off the overhead light. "Were you taking it in the hospital?"
He nodded, removed his hand from his eyes. "Concussion, Doc; headache's part of the drill. Of course I was taking it, because they'd lock me up for non-compliance if I didn't. O wait. I was already locked up." He sighed. "I don't like narcotics."
Doc sat down again, locked eyes with him. "Punishing yourself won't bring back John Russell; it won't change what happened in Iraq."
"I know that. I…I've been thinking…"
He swallowed.
At some moment he couldn't put his finger on…sometime between the concrete barrier and his last conversation with Padre Donovan in the psychiatric ward yesterday morning…he'd actually started to believe what Doc had been telling him.
Maybe "believe" was too strong a word, but the thought that maybe it might possibly be true…didn't seem so outlandish anymore. Didn't make him want to yell and throw things.
The problem was, trying to get the words out of his mouth…he'd tried twice last night to whisper them to himself…was proving impossibly difficult.
It wasn't like he was saying it to make Doc happy.
Hell, Doc would probably yell at him, ask him why he hadn't realized this, admitted it, before he crashed the car, tell him he had just been trying to get attention.
He took a drink of water.
"I have to stop…blaming myself for…John Russell and Michael Oates and…Jimmy Beale and Jonesy and…the rest of them. Because…their deaths… weren't…my fault."
He closed his eyes.
The room was quiet.
A chair scraped on the floor.
He flinched at the warm hand on his arm, opened his eyes.
Doc was looking at him. He didn't look angry. He was still the calm, sturdy lifeline Danny needed to keep his head above water. Because he might have come up from the bottom of the ocean but he was still treading water.
"Good job," Doc said quietly. "You're making progress, Danny."
"Progress?" he scoffed. "Eleven days ago I tried to kill myself. I should have died in that car crash; hell, the car should have been totaled. But it's not and I'm not dead. How-the-hell have I made progress? I'm still…" He shook his head.
Doc sat down next to him, keeping his hand on Danny's arm. Why was that simple touch so damned comforting?
"A few days ago, you told me you didn't want to die. You just admitted that your friends' deaths weren't your fault—that's huge progress, Danny."
"Fine, whatever. Does that mean I'm all better and can go back to work?"
"What do you think?"
He shook his head, cursed. Now jackhammers had joined the rockets in his head.
He took a shaky breath, let it out. "I know I'm not ready to be on the streets again, to have a gun in my hand."
"Why is that?"
"Because…I still don't know…why I'm alive. I'm facing two months stuck at home bored out of my mind, followed by at least six months on desk duty, and then no guarantee that I'll get back to full duty. Sounds thrilling."
"You need to find something other than your job to live for, Danny."
He sighed. "And here we go again, back to me thinking I don't deserve to be alive. Haven't we talked that to death already?"
Doc looked him in the eye. "What happened in Iraq was not your fault. You agree on that, correct?"
He couldn't breathe for a minute, and then he nodded slowly. "I…I think so."
"Then why do you still think that you do not deserve to be alive?"
He shook his head. "I…I don't know. If I…if what happened in Iraq wasn't my fault…then, then…"
Damn, this was hard.
"Then maybe…I do deserve to be alive?"
"Good job, Danny."
He swallowed hard. "Why the hell do I still feel so…empty? I should be jumping up and down with joy."
"Danny, you've spent nine years thinking you don't deserve to be alive—most of that time, trying to hide that feeling from everyone around you. Realizing that that is a false belief…isn't going to cure your depression in an instant, unfortunately. Neither is a month on Zoloft, or six days of inpatient therapy. It's going to take time."
"I know that, dammit! I just…thought…" He shook his head. "I'm tired of feeling like this, Doc!"
"Like what?"
"Like I don't wanna die, but I don't know what I have to live for without the job. Couldn't sleep last night; had a nightmare. I'm really scared that…the suicidal thoughts will come back."
"I'm going to be honest with you, Danny. The thoughts and impulses probably will come back—which is why we made you a safety plan."
He shivered. "I can't work; I can barely read because of the head. What am I gonna do for two months, Doc?"
"Rest, play chess with your grandfather, do some light exercise, do the brain exercises the ER doc gave you, finish your homework assignments."
O crap. Those. "I tried to kill myself, and I still have to do those stupid homework exercises?"
"Yes. If anything, they're more important now. All I want you to work on is the 5 reasons to keep living, and 5 reasons you deserve to be alive."
"When's my homework due, Doc?"
Doc thought for a minute. "I think I'll give you a few days to settle back in with your family, practice your coping skills. Why don't we schedule our next session for Friday?"
He nodded. "That works."
Doc stood up. "What's your safety plan?"
He pulled the crumpled paper out of his pocket. "Distract myself, reach out to whoever's home, call Dad or Linda or Erin, call you or Padre. If none of those things works, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255)."
"Good job, Danny. I'll see you Friday."
He stood, shakily, shook the younger man's hand. "Thanks…thanks for pulling me off the bottom of the ocean floor, Doc," he whispered.