I Admit it. I’m a Widow Who’s Often Afraid to Be Alone at Night

A coworker, whose office is right beside mine and with whom I have multiple doorway conversations a day, elicits jump-scares from me regularly when he’s just popping over to have a quick chat. Another coworker was treated to an ear-piercing scream from me when they had the audacity to try to get into their car, which was parked right beside mine, at the very moment I happened to look up from stowing my laptop and purse in the passenger’s seat. The shocked look on his face, innocently opening his car door, lunch cooler in hand, is forever imprinted on my brain.

But this alarm situation at 3:30 a.m. was something altogether different.

This wasn’t me being hypervigilant about nonexistent danger — this was a real-life threat.

Because I’m such a scaredy cat, I lock my bedroom door when I go to bed each night.

Before my husband died, I was less frightened by things that went bump in the night, but I’d still stir at the slightest noise and wake him to inspect it. I remember the stunning realization when we were home between treatments for his leukemia that I’d have to be the person to defend us if someone forcibly entered our home because not only was he weak from the disease and chemo, but his platelets were so low that one fall or punch could have killed him.

So, lying there in the bed, sweating and heart thump, thump, thumping in my ears, I went through the contingency plans I’d made for such an occasion: Slip silently out of bed, phone in hand, and quietly barricade myself in my ensuite bathroom, locking the door behind me. Then, proceed further into the toilet room, which has another locking door, from where I would quietly call 911. Breaking through three solid wood doors takes time — hopefully enough time for the police, who are stationed just a few blocks away from my home, to show up and save the day.

I had just taken hold of the giant Maglite Flashlight I keep nestled between my nightstand and bedframe for its intended purpose — as well as its ability to serve as a weapon — when reality took hold. I don’t have a patio.

I paused, straining to hear the sound of a would-be murderer climbing the stairs to my bedroom while looking at my phone. I heard the howl of wind outside the windows. I hit the weather app and saw that gusts of up to 40 mph were predicted over the next three hours. The final piece fell into place — the access door to my rooftop deck was labeled “patio door” on my alarm.

Pressure changes caused by gusts, especially four stories up, can trip it.

Relief rushed through me, and I keyed the alarm code into my phone, disarming it right before it pierced the peace of the night. While that saved my neighbors and local law enforcement a startling wake-up call, sleep eluded me. Every noise was an intruder making his way up the stairs. Every shift in shadows was someone standing outside the door, blocking the hallway nightlight.

I’ve been told that my reading (English, Scottish and Irish murder fiction) and podcast (true crime) habits likely stoke my fear of things that go bump in the night. But I believe that they do the opposite — by learning how crimes are committed, I am teaching myself how not to be a victim. This is not just my theory — it’s something many of the women I know who watch Dateline or stream true crime believe.

Entertainment habits aside, my fears of being alone must get better, especially since it’s my only choice now that my sons are off living their lives. Will I always run up the stairs at night as if someone’s chasing me? Lock my bedroom door when I go to sleep? Check around corners and behind doors whenever I enter a room? Probably. But from now on whenever my house alarm tells me my patio door has opened in the night, I’ll skip the histrionics and stay cozy in my blanket burrito, knowing it’s only the wind.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.