Work Text:
The sterile white of the hospital walls seemed to press in on her, a physical manifestation of the suffocating anxiety that had become her constant companion. Samira gripped the edge of the examination table, her knuckles white. Another failed intervention. Another life hanging precariously in the balance, despite her best efforts.
I've been having a hard time adjusting. The relentless pressure of the trauma center felt less like a challenge now and more like a slow, agonizing descent. The weight of responsibility was a crushing burden, and lately, it felt like she was constantly on the verge of being swallowed whole by the relentless demands of the job.
She remembered the fierce drive that had propelled her through medical school, the unwavering belief in her ability to make a difference. I had the shiniest wheels, now they're rusting. That bright ambition felt tarnished, corroded by the constant exposure to suffering and loss. Sometimes, the thought of facing another day, another impossible case, felt unbearable in the oppressive atmosphere. I didn't know if you'd care if I came back. Back to that hopeful, naive version of herself, before the edges had frayed and the doubt had taken root amidst the constant chaos.
Regret was a bitter taste that lingered constantly. The sharp words spoken in exhaustion, the moments of detached professionalism that felt like a betrayal of her own empathy. My words shoot to kill when I'm mad. I have a lot of regrets about that. The very intensity that made her a driven physician could also be a destructive force in the high-stakes environment of trauma care.
She had once been the golden girl, the one who seemed to effortlessly navigate the complexities of trauma care. I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere. Fell behind all my classmates, and I ended up here. Here, in the heart of the storm, feeling increasingly inadequate, as if the sheer volume of human suffering was a tide she could no longer outrun.
Late at night, in the lonely silence of her apartment, the air thick with unspoken anxieties, she would replay the day's events, dissecting every decision, every interaction. It felt like a desperate confession whispered to the empty room. Pouring out my heart to a stranger. But I didn't pour the whiskey. The rawness was there, the desperate need to unburden herself, but the numbing escape remained just out of reach.
Each morning, she forced herself to return, driven by a stubborn refusal to completely surrender to the darkness that threatened to engulf her. But it was a hollow victory, fueled by obligation rather than genuine hope. Every patient who didn't make it, every family shattered by grief in the intense emotional atmosphere, chipped away at her soul.
I just wanted you to know, she thought, the words a silent scream in the echoing chambers of her mind. That this is me trying. Trying to hold it together when she felt like she was breaking into a million pieces under the weight of the emotional intensity of her work. Trying to care when her own heart felt numb in the face of so much suffering. Trying to find a flicker of light in the overwhelming darkness of trauma.
It was a desperate, exhausting effort. A constant battle against the encroaching despair. And in the quiet moments of crushing self-doubt, the only certainty was the agonizing truth: this was her, barely holding on in the relentless pressure of the trauma center, desperately trying not to drown.