My mental health is like a bucket of water I’m trying to carry through life. My ex was a hole in the bottom, and I’d plugged it and traveled a little way before my oldest child punched me in the gut and I dropped it; it landed upright but then my younger children each gave it a kick running toward the bottom-hole that fathered them. The bucket still holds a little water, but it’s sloshing around. If you took a burst of photos of it over a brief period of time and some of them would look almost okay and others would be like “oh damn, there goes another little splash!”
I’d like to keep going, but I have to wait for this sloshing to stop.