Stop telling me I’m lucky

I see you every day, while others don’t see their partners for months at a time. I’m lucky.

You only work the night shift, you’re not in the military, or out on the boats. I’m lucky.

I count down the hours until I see you, others count down the days, weeks, or even months. I’m lucky.

Sometimes I cry a little when I lay in bed alone. My heart feels heavy when you kiss me goodbye and shut the door behind you. My anxious thoughts get the best of me while I wait the 42 minutes it takes you to get to work, waiting for that “I’m here” text because you have almost been killed on the way to work before. I’m selfish, because I’m so lucky.

Stop telling me I’m lucky.

I will always be grateful that I see him daily when you don’t see yours that often.

I’m grateful I get to spend every holiday with him.

I’m grateful he’s here, and that he’s healthy.

But I’m tired of feeling guilty for missing him. I’m tired of feeling guilty for the nights I crave the feeling of his warm body holding mine. I’m tired of feeling like I’m a horrible person for these feelings.