The Black Dog hates mountains

“I never told you this, but I visited a priest three years ago.” Mama admitted, sipping on her Campari Orange. “I brought him a picture of you, told him what you’ve been through all these years and asked if you were cursed.” She then gazed adoringly at the Christmas gift I had just given her - a positive pregnancy test - and her look turned warmer with appreciation. “Multumesc lui Dumnezeu!”

Mama had developed a habit out of thanking God for my health, accomplishments and happiness. When I would earn a well-deserved promotion after years of hard work, or get home safely after a five-minute drive, or my now unborn child growing inside me, she would always type those words into Whatsapp, utter them over the phone or in my ear while hugging me - multumesc lui Dumnezeu. I would send a thumbs-up emoji, mumble a short ‘mhm’ or nod heartily. We often steered clear of talks about religion, not because of any heated arguments, but because of acceptance; we both agreed that as long as neither hurt the other, we would accept each other’s beliefs and live our lives according to our own moral compass. 

Sure, it bothered me that praise or the mere acknowledgment of my hard work wasn’t her immediate response when I would give her good news that mostly pertained to my actions, but she loved her God and I loved my Mama, and I had developed enough self-confidence to overlook such feedback, or rather the lack thereof. 

If I was being honest, what bothered me more was her identical appreciation of external forces for my failures, bad choices or heartbreak. She blamed witches, disgruntled mothers of boys I had dated that had surely put a curse on me, or bad luck. So when I learned that the priest she’d taken my picture to gave an emphatic answer to her inquiry - “No, M’am, she’s not cursed, I assure you. She’s just making bad choices.” - I had the strong urge to meet the guy and shake his hand. Or hug him. But mostly, thank him. He planted a seed that I had failed to convince her of for years - the importance of freedom of choice.

In my twenties, I wasn’t the heroine people usually rooted for in Marvel films or Sarah J. Maas novels. In fact, I had become a villain in a lot of people’s lives when I left my high-school sweetheart, four years into our relationship and seven months into our marriage. My choice catapulted him into a severe depression, numerous acts of self-harm and suicidal ideation. That darkness consumed him to such an extent that he couldn’t meet me during our divorce proceedings - he signed the papers separately and sent his mother to meet me and our lawyers instead. The last words she spoke to me were, coincidentally, making note of God as well - “I hope to God I never meet a person like you again.” His sister glared at me from across the street as we left the lawyer’s office. His father asked me “Why?” with such contempt that made me freeze in place and stay silent until we parted ways in the street. I couldn’t understand why my twenty-eight year old partner sent his family’s army to meet me instead of facing me himself.

But I later did.

The reasons why I asked for a divorce weren’t extreme in nature or resulting from years of abuse - he was, in fact, a decent guy. He had studied medicine and had just started working as a cardiologist when we got married. He was funny, good-natured, whose only bouts of anger happened during football matches. He treated me well and loved me deeply - too much so, if that was possible, because I had noticeably become the centre of his world. Sharing life with me turned into his only purpose, as he was imploringly telling me when I confessed to wanting a divorce. He idealized every fragment of who - he thought - I was, and became convinced that he would never find a better partner, or even worse, a better human.

Spoiler alert: he did. He survived, overcame his depression, became Chief of Cardiology in our hometown, and is now married with two kids (or so it seemed the last time my friend, unprompted, checked on Facebook and informed me). 

Because of his immaculate reputation as a human being, in everyone’s mind including my own, I felt the weight of my choices deeply; even Mama asked me at that time, “How could you leave a guy like him? Imagine what his granny’s feeling right now, she must be so upset!” I couldn’t tell her that the reason why I ended my marriage was because I started going to group therapy for the first time and discovered, after a few sessions, that I was too young when we got married, that I had had no idea what I wanted from a life-long partner when we made that commitment, and that I was starting to know myself better and how I wanted to navigate life. All these reasons would have added to the perceived selfishness that muddied my character, but I explained them all to my husband; he was the only person that deserved to know. We talked of physical attraction, intimacy, the ups and downs of our connection, and tried my best to make him understand. 

He did. “Rationally, I understand completely. Emotionally, I’m a mess.”

I never caught a glimpse of that rationality after that day. “I’m telling you this without a morsel of malice - I hope you will be happy in life, knowing the mess you left behind. I am your masterpiece.” His words stuck with me for years to come, and I juggled between blaming myself for his depression and every dark thought he had about himself, and becoming frustrated for being considered responsible for his mental health, for his response to my choices, for not being able to leave a relationship without the threat of suicide. 

I promised myself to never put that pressure and obligation on any future partner of mine, if they ever decided to leave me.

That promise was put to test five years later, when my next fiancé left me to pursue an intense career in politics.

I was caught off guard, fell into depression and understood every corner of my ex-husband’s mind a whole lot better during the months that followed. I understood pain, grief, hopelessness, anguish, but I had the advantage of also having learned about guilt, shame, empathy, and the one thing that priest had taught Mama - the importance of free will. 

I was responsible for my own mental health, and my fiancé was responsible for his own life. Every part of me burnt with anger and grief, but I faced all flames myself before any conversation I would have with him, making sure no piercing insult would trickle into our dynamic. I wanted to be kind. I wanted him to feel free. I wanted to treat him the way I had wanted to be treated five years back.

And man, I am so grateful that I managed to do just that.

Months after we parted ways, I climbed a mountain on my own for the first time. I was listening to ‘The Cave’ by Mumford & Sons on repeat, driving my little 2003 blue Toyota Yaris from Galway to Westport. I wasn't used to independence, space or my own company, and now I had (too) much of it. Even with all that freedom, I still felt claustrophobic; I often overindulged in listening to my own thoughts, so I switched to Mumford & Sons and dragged myself up a mountain to (I thought) escape my own head.

I had climbed Croagh Patrick before, but never alone. What I liked about it was that every hike was ever-changing. Rocks would shift and budge and fall, paths covered in pebbles changed into dirt tracks, roads I previously thought were safe were now steeper, muddier, slippery.

I watched my every step up and down the mountain that day, noticing my feet more than I noticed the views. I noticed my thoughts, my anger, my woe-is-me's and my why-me's. But by the time I finished the hike, my mind was quiet and those thoughts were gone. It was like I had scattered them somewhere along the trail and left them there. I rewarded myself with Supermac's on my way back to Galway and started thinking of independence very differently.

I was very much aware, back then, that I'd either sink or swim in the mess that was my reality that year, and I'm so happy that I chose a third option - to hike alone. To be alone. To face myself. To change my dark thought patterns. To take my little blue car to Westport, Killarney, Dublin, Sligo, and then ditch it and take a flight back home to Transylvania after a five year adventure abroad. To turn my life upside down yet again if that's what I thought would get me closer to the very reality I'm actually living in today - happily married, heavily pregnant, stubbornly pursuing dream jobs, blissfully surrounded by kind, empathetic, hilarious human beings that I am lucky to call my friends, joyfully drowning in all the cat hair my two pets graciously gift me every day.

I wasn't aware how close I was to living a completely different life until I hiked up that mountain alone and stuffed enough courage in my boots to last me a lifetime.

And man, I am so grateful that I managed to do just that.

For years to come, I tried to express gratitude for everything that happened that brought me here. I would tell myself I wouldn’t be who I am today if my divorce never happened. I justified my ex-husband’s pain - or rather, gave it value - by adopting this mentality. I would appreciate my current self-confidence, energy and passion for life, thinking it was a direct result of everything that happened as well. Better yet, If I was to encapsulate everything into one concept - the concept of regret - I would have confessed, “I don’t regret a thing. Because it made me who I am today. And I am so proud of the person that I have become.” 

Internalizing all of this never felt quite right, and it took me years to understand why; because I do have regrets. I regret marrying my husband. The priest my Mama had visited called it exactly for what it was - a bad choice, a choice that resulted in suffering, suffering that I would love to take away. I am sure I would have figured out how to be a kind and empathetic person without putting another soul in the line of fire. No matter how much I wish he would have given me the freedom to leave without threatening suicide or refusing to take responsibility for his own mental health, I still can’t help wishing I would have done something different if it had spared him of the darkness I would come to be intimate with myself later on. I wouldn’t wish the Black Dog on any human being.

So, no, I am not fully grateful for everything that happened. 

I am grateful for some of the things that I could make happen.

I am grateful for clinging to courage. For going to therapy. For climbing Croagh Patrick alone. For choosing empathy over bitter retorts to rejection. I am grateful for accepting the feeling of regret, having taught me to think over every commitment I would agree to going forward. I am grateful for staying kind to Mama when she would thank her God for all the good things that happened in my life - our acceptance of each other’s differences brought us so much closer together. 

Mama made a habit out of thanking God. 

She made a habit out of blaming witches. 

I made a habit out of feeling grateful for a concept that people have many names for - free will. Autonomy. Personal agency. Liberty of action. Freedom of choice. No matter what you call it, that little concept saved me from being devoured by the Black Dog, instilling in me the stubborn belief that I can change my circumstances at any given time. It was no easy feat and it is definitely not a universal weapon that would save everyone against this monster - I am very much aware how lucky I was to be able to have done that.

Maybe I should thank Mama’s God for that luck.