Cook the Books

hard as the other workers to prove himself to his father. In my opinion, Danny was no more than a slave to his father, yet Danny killed himself to live up to his father’s standards.
    Today my client showed up with his entire left hand wrapped thickly with gauze. “Danny, what happened?” I asked.
    Danny smiled and waved away my concern. “Ah, it’s nothin’. I just got hurt a few days ago.” He leaned back in his chair and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His curly black hair was damp with sweat, and his ruddy cheeks were flushed from working outside in the cold all morning. To get to our appointments, Danny told his father that he was taking a business class. He’d never have let his father know that he was going to therapy. “Therapy is for sissies,” the father had told Danny.
    I eyed Danny’s hand. “That looks serious.”
    “Nah. I cut myself with an electric saw. Just a nick really. My dad had me wrap it up, and I went to the ER after my shift.”
    “What time did this happen?”
    “First thing in the morning. Can you believe it? What a way to start of the day, huh?”
    “And you usually work from six in the morning until four thirty in the afternoon?”
    Danny nodded as he looked at his bandaged hand.
    “So your father wouldn’t let you go to the emergency room for what? Eight hours?”
    Danny nodded again. “I needed fourteen stitches.” He hung his head. “But I wanted him to know that I could tough it out. That I’m the son he always wanted. And it’s not like it didn’t stop bleeding or anything. I wrapped it myself and it was fine.” He laughed softly. “It’s nothing new, though. I get hurt all the time. You know, when I was a kid, there were two bullies who lived up the block from us. One time they beat the crap out of me. I was ten, and these kids just pummeled me. For no reason whatsoever. Just because they were assholes. And they thought I was a loser. I mean, I was a scrawny, funny-looking kid, but I never did anything to them. The older one broke my cheekbone, he hit me so hard.”
    I never would have guessed that Danny had ever been less than the strapping, handsome man who sat in front of me. I wished that I could sic him on those bullies today. “What was your father’s response when you came home so injured?”
    “He smacked me on the back of the head and told me it would make me a man.” Danny paused. “And he said I better not cry or he’d finish what the kids started.”
    “Oh, Danny.”
    “When my Dad went out later that afternoon, my mother took me to the hospital. But I didn’t cry once.” He forced a smile. “When I was healing and all black-and-blue, my dad would point out my bruises to his friends and act all proud of me. Like I was worthy of being his son because I’d been in a fight. Not that I’d done much fighting back, but he didn’t know that. Look, I’m making it sound worse than it was. My dad really wants the best for me. And he’s right that I need to be motivated. I can be really lazy, and I need to be pushed sometimes. He wants me to be big-time, you know? Take over his company one day.”
    It took all of my willpower to control my breathing. I hated hearing stories like Danny’s, which were all too common. I wanted Danny to quit his job and move far away from the father he’d been stuck with, but it was important to help him start making decisions for himself and eventually to realize on his own that his father was abusive. My client’s pattern of driving himself to the ground to impress his father had to end. As Danny continued to talk, I took notes, in part to be able to review them later and in part to keep busy and distance myself as I listened to yet more examples of his father’s destructive behavior. To continue to do clinical work, I’d have to learn to tolerate hearing painful stories, but so far, I found the experience almost overwhelming.
    By the time I got off work, I was drained and depressed. What’s more, I was ashamed. Listening to my clients had reminded me that there were much worse things in life than a broken heart. Unlike some of my clients, I had a wonderful, loving family and close friends. Still, I had to acknowledge that even with a healthy upbringing and a stable family system, I had a right to feel upset about Josh. The experts, including the professor who taught my class on attachment, would agree that I was mourning the loss of a relationship and needed to grieve.
    It was