…Therefore my life is boring. Sure, I’m glad I landed a mater who loves me more than anything in the world and would walk to the end of the earth for me, but holy shit, could you put up a fight once in a while, woman? Maybe complain about the way I do things, like my irrational fear of letting other people sit on my bed, especially when it’s freshly made? You used to complain about my eating habits (foods cannot touch each other on the plate, and the milk must be cold as possible (i.e. fresh from the fridge) and it must contain lactose (my sister is lactose-intolerant, so we buy two different kinds of milk), and that was always fun.
My mom and I haven’t gotten in a fight in such a long time. We barely get snappy with each other anymore. Not that I’m sad that’s gone — it’s no fun always bickering with the person you love most — but our relationship’s getting kind of boring. After she got on board with me and my dad in truly believing that I had anxiety, she got real nice. Too nice.
But — hold the fuck up. I am aware of the fact that I am incredibly fortunate. Who am I, to propose the conjecture that my mother is “too nice“? I have a mom. I have a healthy mom. I have a loving mom. I have a mom who devotes every aspect of her life to taking care of me. I have a mom who enjoys being a mom. Some people don’t even have moms. I’m a piece of shit.
Thank you, mommy, for being my mom, and for everything you do. I love you so fucking much, you have no idea. Same goes for you, dad.