VI
"Sid, you need to think about if this treatment is working for you," his therapist, Dr Wade, said that crisp, clinical voice he always had. "We've working together for a good length of time now, and I haven't seen any marked improvement. You have said yourself that you hate coming here."
Sid just looked down at his torn up boots, destroyed from working in his father's garage. He wondered why Dr. Wade couldn't have picked a better couch. This one was too overstuffed to be comfortable, one had to perch on the very edge of the cushion or one's body would be sucked into the depths of the couch, leading the body to take a position that was uncomfortable for extended lengths of time.
"What else can I do? If I go to anybody else, all I'll have to do is explain my stupid sob story all over again and that's not anything I want to do," Sid rubbed his rough hands together, examining his grease-darkened nails instead of looking at Dr Wade.
"If you'd rather stay with the familiar, then I'm going to insist that you begin to take charge of your own recovery. You said you weren't willing to try other antidepressants, there are other types out there besides SSRIs, and they may work with you better. I've stressed this, Sid, they are not going to make you magically better, they are only a tool to help you. We've given you all the tools you need to help yourself, but I feel you haven't taken them to heart.
"You're an insightful young man, Sid, and I know you understand what I tell you during these sessions. You need to start believing that this can help you, not that all of therapy is a... 'load of bull invented by greedy shits,' because I genuinely want you to get better and have a long, happy life. You need to strive for it. I cannot 'save' you from your depression. You need to save yourself. Therapy and medicine are only tools to help you achieve that."
Sid looked up from his hands into the greyish, weepy eyes of Dr Wade. For a brief second, he saw Helga, sitting there with a scowl on her lips and her hands on her hips, like they were many months ago, when she had told him that only she could save herself.
She had done a better job than he had. The other day when they went out to see Evil Twin VI: Parasitic Horror, she wore short sleeves. Sid had seen every pale white scar that glittered on her arm, clinging like frost. But she wore them like battle scars, and she was proud of them. She didn't care who noticed and who didn't. She accepted the scars as part of herself, and if someone could not accept all of her, they weren't worth her time.
Sid wondered if he could ever be as brave as her. He wanted to be. He hoped he could be.
"Okay, Doc, I'm ready. I really want to get better."