In the Mind of a Misfit (10)

Zan lay under the covers of her bed with her eyes wide open and her body in the foetal position. Her curtains were drawn and the room was still dark, but she could hear the birds beginning to chirp outside. She stared into the abyss for the fourth hour in a row, but her head was still heavy and her vision was dull and hazy. When her stomach growled she merely wrapped her arms tightly around her waist and brought her knees closer to her chest.

Here, under the comfort of her blankets, she allowed her thoughts to consume her. The warmth of her blankets felt like safety and as long she stayed under these sheets, she thought, she belonged somewhere for a while. Her 6 o'clock alarm rang, sending sharp pangs through her temple with every buzz and beep. A tear ran down her cheek and onto her pillow. She knew that Maman would come and try to get her out of bed soon, but in place of what would usually be fear, she felt numb.

Eventually, she sat on the side of her bed and stared at the stained, carpeted floor. The cold air around her made her hairs stand on end. Everything around her seemed to be moving slower than usual. As she stood up her legs felt heavy and walking felt like a battle against a current of water.

She looked directly into the mirror at the dark-skinned, curvaceous body that stood before her. The figure in the mirror looked familiar and yet she felt like she was being carried around in a shell that was not her own to call home. Though she could see clearly, time seemed to lapse as she navigated her foggy mind. She carefully stroked the purple half-moons under her eyes and wiped the gound from the corners of her eyes.

Her thoughts were halted by Maman’s banging on the door. Zan knew that she had to answer to show her mother that she was awake but her mind was blank and she continued to stare at the vessel in the mirror.

Maman banged on the door once more. “Hosanna?”.

Zan dragged herself towards the door and pulled it open enough for half of her face to peek through. Maman made eye-contact with the sunken version of her daughter’s eyes and furrowed her brows. “Are you sick?” She asked, folding her arms.

“No, Maman,-“ Zan said in a low voice. She knew that even though she was being honest with her mother, she was lying to herself. She was sick, but this sickness didn’t accompany a high temperature or a cough.

“Then get ready for school,” Maman demanded. As Maman began to walk away from the door, Zan stepped out of her room.

“Wait,-” Zan whispered. Immediately, tears started streaming down her face. “Maman, I want to see a psychologist.”

Maman kissed her teeth. “Why? You want people to think you're crazy?”

“Maman, I need to talk to a professional,-“ Zan said, twiddling her shaky fingers.

Maman shook her head. “Have I taught you nothing? If you want to talk to someone, you pray to the Lord and ask him to cast out these demons that make you crazy.” Maman wagged her finger at Zan. “These illnesses are white people things, Hosanna, they are not real. Don’t go around believing any foolishness you hear.”

Zan had suspected that this would be Maman’s response. She had always been taught that people who needed medication or professional attention were simply in need of prayer. Zan’s mind was still hazy and she had no more fight left in her. She nodded, walked back into her room and got back into her bed. She pulled the covers over her head and closed her eyes. As much as she was exhausted, her mind still ran rampant with thoughts and insecurities. A word came clearly to her mind: foreigner. She was a foreigner: in her country, in her church, in her school, in her home, in her body and now in her mind.