It's miserable to sleep alone.
It's been years since I've had the comfort of someone to curl up with at night every night, and I thought I was used to it. Maybe even liked it. After all, my big bed is all mine to stretch out in, no one (except my little daughter when she has a bad dream) steals the covers, and I can make a nest of my pillows without anyone complaining that they need a few, too. No one tells me they're too hot or too cold, or laughs about my blanket and quilt in the summertime.
But lately, I've been lonely. Sleep has been hard to find, and my now nightly 3:20 a.m. awakening is accompanied by a bone deep feeling of loneliness. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of waking up alone. I am tired of fighting off middle-of-the-night scary thoughts and anxieties alone.
I want the inconvenience of sharing pillows and blankets and space in the bed. I want to worry about whether the person beside me is cold, and making sure they have enough covers. I want to go to sleep with legs and arms intertwined, and wake up still touching someone.
I am not backing down on the idea that I have been very lucky. But I am reaching a point where I want to share my life -- the very lucky and the not so lucky -- with someone else. Especially at night.