The answers seemed repeated because they were, repeated so many times he couldn't begin to count, or would be able to mention how many psychologists he met in his lifetime. He knew their purpose, but they didn't help nearly as much as they thought they could. When you had a man harshly coaching you on what exactly to say, no doctor could simply ask a question of him and get a nice straight answer.
He quietly took the prescriptions and left after changing into his street clothes. The papers would end up in the trash--they always had before, and even now he fought the ideas of medicating himself to deal with his problems. For now, he stick to Micah like glue, even though he didn't really know nor understand why he let the guy be a trusting figure in his current state. Damn scrubs.