I don’t know how I’m supposed to make it through Dartmouth with an impaired brain. I could make it if anything else was broken—a hip, a leg, an arm—all those things get better quickly, but does a broken brain ever heal? I am overwhelmed by the thought, feeling like a judge has just handed me a life sentence. I start sobbing, spiraling loud cries right into nature’s belly.

I finally understand. There was no way I would ever make it. Even if the poverty didn’t kill me, the violence didn’t maim me, the pain of watching the ones I love suffer didn’t undo me, mental illness, the highest, most potent card in the deck, would still win. It would be waiting in the woods with consequences far worse than any looming serial killer or hate group. The God of Opposition himself, the supreme joker, the wild card, and, ironically, the only guarantee in the pack, would rise against me, delivering the most brutal knockout of the game. The House of Oppression’s kryptonite finally striking Superwoman from the sky.

It’s too much to bear. I had renewed hope after my second session with Jennifer, but my old despair comes prancing back just like Manda Panda after a night of partying. All of my accomplishments and exceptionality could not save me from my own broken humanity, my frayed ancestral lineage, or the God of Opposition’s wrath. I guess even a Chosen One has to unbury the skeletons eventually.

I decide there is no point in trying anymore if my life will always be like this. I consider jumping, like the shadowy figure, into oblivion.

By the time the rest of the group arrives to find me crying my eyes out, it’s almost evening. Snot leaks from my nostrils as I heave in large swaths of air. Earnell comes racing toward me, my very own Black Prince Charming. Then Daniel, looking surprisingly like a Black savior as well. No blond hair or blue eyes in sight, except for the girl who likes a little chocolate in her milk. More irony. They both sit next to me. Earnell wraps his arms around me and says, “I understand. I don’t know what it’s about, but I understand.” His compassion dissolves me further into a puddle of tears and snot. The others bend their knees and sit around me. Nobody says a word. It’s the first time I don’t feel isolated, despite the silence. I’ve learned that I don’t need words to feel close to people. The fact of another living presence is enough. For once, I’m not crying alone. I thank the God of Light for the miracle of human connection, which somehow makes it survivable. Bearable.