A Black Hound Is the Most Loyal Lover

While I had always wanted this relationship — having been elated beyond belief the night you asked me to be your girlfriend — what do you do the morning after Happily Ever After?

It took only a few hours before anxiety caught up with ecstasy. Having a committed relationship comes with its own set of responsibilities. I wasn’t scared of responsibility, but why did I feel I was leaving something behind? It felt as if I forgot that I already had a lover before you.

Right after I said yes, I heard loud barks from the other room. Or was it the closet? Under my bed? On the floor above me? All of the above? The barks grew louder and louder, and I pulled myself away from you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Nothing.” I didn’t realise what was wrong. Everything seemed to be perfect. But why do I feel so… off? My heart rattled, my body tightened, and the floor below me seemed to tremble like an earthquake about to come.

Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!

I ran to the bathroom and locked the door. My spine and limbs felt like it was tightly wound to a string that someone was pulling through a hole in my skull.

“Hey baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I tried to think of an answer but could not find anything. My body was tightly wound, but my mind was like a ball of loose strings crumpled together, knotted to an impossible point.

I only felt soft fur rubbing against my feet. It licked me more fervently than when I usually came home alone from work. I petted its head and rubbed its belly. I asked, Are you jealous? Or are you just upset that I’ve neglected you for too long?

I let it rest its head on my lap. I didn’t have to speak for it to hear my heart: I thought you would leave me after I found someone kind and understanding. But now you’re more clingy than ever. It purred softly in approval. I responded, Why won’t you leave me alone? I didn’t realise I was crying again.

You knocked on the door. “Baby, tell me what’s wrong.”

I opened the door and went for a hug. You couldn’t hear it, but I was sure the hound was growling behind us. You held me patiently in your arms and caressed my head as I cried and trembled.

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” you said.

“There’s a big, scary hound following us, and I’m scared it will bite you,” I wanted to say. But I didn’t think you would understand. After all, I was highly conscious of this, having led relationships to their demise. I realised I had to deal with it on my own before committing to relationships and having someone else bear the burden of parenting a pest-infected, sick dog.

“We can work on this together,” you assured me. Yet, it scares me that you’re not the first to say that. I’m waiting for the day when, after months of trying, you will finally prove me right when you give up on me. I’m waiting for the “I can’t do this anymore” that will ensue. Rightfully so, as not everyone finds getting bitten by canines pleasurable.

In truth, I felt guilty that you had to deal with me being neurotic, anxious, and depressed. I felt guilty that night when I couldn’t hold it in anymore and cried on your lap. I felt guilty that after 24 hours of spending time together, because your presence was so addictive that I couldn’t resist, I let you — in fact, wanted you — to stay, despite knowing that I couldn’t keep up my energy to maintain a palatable demeanour.

I’m sorry was what I intended to say, but instead, I said thank you. “Thank you for being patient with me despite my anxiety tonight.” “Thank you for listening despite this being about me.” “Thank you for giving me your time and emotional energy despite me being difficult to deal with.”

But even you picked up that what I meant was, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

I didn’t want you to see me like this. You were too kind, too sensitive, too understanding, in that I was scared that one day, my demons would take hold of me and exploit your charity.

“I’m not being ‘patient’ with you.” You stressed, before correcting yourself, “I’m not ‘putting up’ with anything. You’re just being human.”

You reassured me, over and over again, that this wasn’t a problem for you. I asked if you think I was draining to be around. You said no. I wondered why you said so. You said it was because you knew what ‘draining’ was like and that I wasn’t that. I asked what ‘draining’ was like. You said that people who are draining are those who aren’t self-aware about their emotions and expect the world to revolve around them. I wasn’t like that, you said.

But how did you know? I was self-aware, you assumed. But what if, despite being so, my emotions were so overwhelming they overflowed from my hands like water seeping through my fingers, no matter how tightly I tried to cup them?

“It’s okay,” you whispered, kissing my forehead. “You are enough as you are. It is fine to be anxious. Everything will be alright.” You rubbed my back and held me as I cried on your shoulders. That should have been the end of it. I should have been fine. You have reassured me very well that, intellectually, everything was fine and that I’ve got nothing to worry about.

But even after the perfect reassurances — I could not have asked any better, for in the past, men have usually dismissed or gotten tired of me — the feeling still crept up soon after, regardless. I feared that I could never “work on this together.”

This morning, after many consecutive nights of living together, you left despite my initial protest. I complained a little that I didn’t like being left alone. You said that you wanted to leave me alone, not to distract me from my exams. I nodded and let you go. Yet, in my mind, I knew the real reason you left. You were starting to get exhausted.

This was supposed to be bad news, but surprisingly, I was relieved after being left alone. On the one hand, I did miss you and longed for you whenever you were away. On the other, I also wanted a space where I could be depressed without guilt.

Maybe, somewhere deep in my mind, I was content with being depressed forever. Perhaps I had been adjusted to my maladjustment. Perhaps all I wanted was a space to cry, bedrot, doomscroll, and allow a home for this giant black hound who would otherwise follow me to places it was not allowed unless I fed and satiated it to sleep.

Indeed, a blackhound is the most loyal lover.

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This post was previously published on Celine Hosea’s blog.

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