Sven sat in his office signing documents pertaining to his patients. Being a psychologist, he hated to admit that he enjoyed writing his entire title, Sven Jensen Ph.D., even on personal correspondence. No one knew how hard it was for him to achieve a degree, all anyone saw when they looked at him was a tall, handsome Belgian.
     Sven realized when he arrived in America to go to college, good looks didn't equal intelligence. When Americans saw his delicate features, the small straight nose, deep set ice blue eyes, charming smile and thick blond hair, they ceased to take him seriously. His pleasant physical attributes coupled with broken English, put conversations with professors, employers and other students on a remedial level, as if he couldn't understand words of more than one syllable. One employer even took to yelling at Sven every time he talked to him, even though  Sven reminded him more than once he was Belgian, not deaf.  Luckily, Sven found other Belgian students on campus and spent most of his free time with them, making fun of Americans.
      Once Sven achieved his Ph.D., he ran into a different set of problems with his patients. Because of their preconceived notions about foreigners, they felt he couldn't relate to their problems and was arrogantly looking down on them. He was accused more than once of being a member of the privileged class. But while his patients delivered their accusations, they never once stopped to wonder why he chose to treat adults abused as children and not wealthy American capitalist or their in creditably rich, however depressed, wives.
      A sudden memory flashed before his eyes and Sven put down his pen and sat back in his leather office chair. Unconsciously he rubbed the scar that ran along his hairline, souvenir of the last time his father hit him. Touching the raised area on his scalp Sven remembered how he'd received the blow and what happened afterward.
      Being awaken in the middle of the night by angry voices was nothing out of the ordinary for the teenager, but that night the terror in his mother's voice caused him to bound of bed and down the stairs. He panicked when he saw blood at the bottom of the stairs and raced to the living room where his parents were screaming at each other. Sven stopped at the doorway when he saw his father holding his mother by the hair with one hand and punching her face with the other. Enraged, he charged the couple and tackled them, causing his father loose his grip on his victim. While his mother scrambled to her feet, Sven's father managed to grab a vase off a nearby table and slam it into his head. Sven let go of his father and stumbled backward landing in a sitting position on the hard wood floor.  Pressing his hand to the gapping wound, Sven watched in disbelief as his mother rushed past him to his father's side. She wanted to make sure he hadn't hurt his father. Realizing they were both drunk and in the morning it all would be forgotten, Sven staggered up the stairs and packed everything he owned. The next day before dawn he set out for his sisters house in a nearby town. Fortunately for Sven, his sister took him in and encouraged him to go to college in America, thereby putting an whole ocean between him and his terrible family life. When it came to picking a specialty, he chose the treatment of adult children of alcoholics.  Sven never saw parents again.
       A timid knock on his door brought Sven out of his reverie into the present. He smiled, 'That would be Mrs. Johnson.' he thought, calling out in his doctor's voice, "Come in."
Sven Jensen Ph.D
     A small woman entered Sven’s office and proceeded to sit down with out once looking up at him.  Mrs.Johnson had been conditioned from birth not to think of herself. Her personal history read much like Sven’s own, complicated further with an abusive marriage.  The term we marry our parents applied completely to Mrs. Johnson and she’d been recommended to him for treatment when her husband almost beat her to death.  She was so timid it was hard for Sven to gage if he were making any progress with her at all. He put on his best non threatening smile and greeted her.
    “Hello, Mrs. Johnson.”
    “Hello, Dr. Jensen,” she replied softly still not looking at him.
    “ The last time you were here we were discussing the options you had open to you now that you’ve decided to leave your husband.  Have you given this any thought?” Sven asked, relaxing back in his chair.
    “I’m not.” Mrs. Johnson whispered.
    Sven face remained a mask of tranquility even though he was disappointed, he knew she’d decided to go back to her husband. All ground work went out the window and the foundation was cracking.  He tried to salvage what was left by getting her to tell him exactly what she’d done, “ Mrs. Johnson please tell me what you mean when you say you’re not.”
   “I’m not leaving Joe, Dr. Jensen.”
   Sven shifted in his seat slightly, preparing for battle, “Mrs. Johnson, I thought we agreed if you return to that environment there’s a good chance you won’t survive.  I can’t in good conscious recommend that you go back to live with your husband when he’s released from jail.”
   Mrs. Johnson finally looked up, Sven wasn’t surprised with the anger he saw in her face. He was surprised she looked up at him.                
   “What do you know about it, you god damn foreigner? You probably skated through life in the lap of luxury in Belgium. Never went hungry or been without a home.. I don’t have anywhere else to go, rich boy,” she said in a hurried whisper as if she were afraid she would be stopped before she finished.
       'Here we go again,' Sven, thought, trying not to smile before he replied, “Let me tell you about my family of orgin, Mrs. Johnson, and why it's no accident there's an ocean between us……”