By: Olivia Chambers
Major: Finance & Minor in Creative Writing
Hometown: Westlake Village, CA
When I was little,
I wanted to be a doctor.
Fixing people and mending their wounds
Was my dream.
When I met you,
I somehow became your doctor.
You told me that you needed helping.
And I was good at that.
I brought you light,
That’s what you said.
You said you knew you were messed up
And I was the only one helping.
It’s said that
Doctors can determine
Seventy-percent of diagnoses
Based primarily off of medical history.
I looked at your medical history.
A toxic relationship, messed-up family life,
Lack of self-confidence, lack of identity,
Too much money, privilege, freedom,
Not enough tenderness, love and care.
Your medical history was flawed to a tee.
I tried to offer you medicine—
To fix you.
That’s what doctors do.
My heart— did you need that?
With people coming in and out of your life
I needed to overcompensate on their behalf.
I stayed when I shouldn’t have.
I forgave when I shouldn’t have.
I wanted to show you what a true friendship
Some days you’d praise my medical practice.
Tell me how you needed me,
How you were being healed.
Other days you’d turn the problem on me.
Say that I was embarrassed to have you as a patient.
How I wasn’t helping like others could.
You decided to leave, to go back to an old expert.
An expert already documented in your flawed medical history.
And I realized that I wasn’t meant to be a doctor.
Because as much as I could mend you,
I became sick in the process.