cutting remarks

While packing up on Sunday, my mother found a package of razor blades. She asked me why I had them in her subtly accusing tone.
“You mean the ones for my matt knife?” I asked.
“I guess.”
“They’re for my matt knife. I use it for crafting, when I make cards and stuff.” Pause for effect. “And for cutting myself.”
Sometimes, I just have to fuck with her, and I made it immediately clear I was indeed fucking with her. I don’t cut myself. In fact, I can’t even listen to other people talk about cutting skin, for self-mutilation, surgery, or by accident. But my mom has absolutely no faith in my overall sanity or ability to function, and any time I give her even the slightest hint that I’m not 100%, she takes the chinks in my armor as proof of my inability. For a long time I thought all this was in my head. My mother still insists it’s all in my head, yet it’s swelling up now to conveniently coincide with her newly empty nest. I’m pretty sure the last time it was this bad was when my sister went off to college. But obviously, it’s me. God I wish she liked pets. She needs a pet. Or my sister. My sister is much better at handling my mom’s invasive need to be needed.