I’ve written a lot about dating for this specific website—especially as someone who, until recently, had never been in a long-term relationship. (Or maybe that’s why I’ve written so much about dating; what is there to report from the depths of a couples’ love nest?) But ever since I met my now-partner almost three years ago, I’ve felt two things simultaneously: 1) consistent, occasionally overwhelming joy (duh) and 2) a distant confusion at how an officially partnered person is supposed to act, feel, respond to things, and generally comport herself within the bounds of a so-called “real relationship.”
I used to worry about this exact phenomenon before I’d dated anyone for longer than six months, and I hated it when my friends would console me with the thought that you “just know” how to act in a real relationship because it “will feel natural.” (You know what else feels “natural”? Menstrual cramps and aluminum-free deodorant, and I don’t believe in either one of them.) As much as I hate to report it, my friends were mostly right; even the things that stymied me most about the faraway province of other people’s relationships, like meeting each other’s parents and figuring out who drives and who stares dreamily out the window “navigating,” have proved to be fine and, in some cases, genuinely fun when I’ve approached them in the context of a happy and safe partnership.
Despite all this rosiness, I can’t help second-guessing myself when my individual needs are at odds with what my partner wants or what’s best for us as a couple, which is exactly the predicament we find ourselves in as we settle into living together after a year of long-distance dating. My partner, an extroverted Virgo by nature, is more or less always down to hang out, but as a prickly Cancerian only child, I’m finding that I need my space—specifically, at night. I love hanging out and cuddling and watching obscure YouTube clips in bed together for an hour or so, but for the first time, I’m realizing that I mostly like to do my actual winding down and sleeping alone.
To be fair, I’ve had a lot of time to get used to sleeping solo even in my relationship. Once we were actually living in the same city, my partner and I quickly realized that my snoring made it impossible for them to get a good night’s rest. The solution to that problem turned out to be relatively simple and and even covered by insurance—a CPAP machine!—but now that there are no roadblocks to us sharing a bedrooms at night, I find that I depend on my solo nighttime routine of watching Real Housewives, eating microwave popcorn, absentmindedly painting my toenails and FaceTiming my faraway besties in order to drift off peacefully. Is this all secret single behavior that I should try to eradicate ASAP, or do we just need a sleep divorce?