Happiness is a scab

I pick at scabs, around the edges, checking to see if the wound has healed, won't bleed if the scab is gone.

I keep picking at my happiness, except, in this metaphorical case, I'm expecting blood, trying to find where the injured parts still remain.

I don't trust this happiness, that it's not here for the long haul, that it's not actually real.

In OCD-free moments, I remind myself to just enjoy the happiness, that it probably won't continue unabated forever (nothing can) but that this happiness is proof, too, that the depression/sadness/anxiety also doesn't last forever.