Monkey Boy

 I haven't had that rough of a morning in forever. And boy was it excruciating.

By cosmic grace, J. was dropping by the rescue to help with feeding/cleaning AM shift. She saw me, waited until we were done, just knew, hugged me authentically, let me cry the waters of my body in her shoulder, took me to the park with coffee and a big plush toy that, cosmic grace had it, was in her car.

-He needs a name.

-A powerful name.

B. named him Monkey Boy. Monkey boy is now with me. The pain was debilitating but after spending that time with J. I was able to function, but I took Monkey boy to the coffee bar with me, dozed off, tried to be a bit productive or bring alleviation, went to the apartment, dozed off, roomie made food, Monkey boy with me.

I left for the evening in better spirits, came back to Monkey boy

I told B. during my Baltimore trip that my achievement for the day was that I went to bed without intentionally hurting anybody. Mediocre shitty achievement I thought back then. Seeing how Americans (most of those I deal with, especially in the white midwest that is) blatantly canonized and normalized using each other, hurting others along the way, having such a self-absorbed and huge ego image, makes me realize it is actually achievement.

Initially, Monkey boy was here to remind me that at least, I'm hugging a plush toy, using one for soothing and comfort, and not an actual human being.

With time hopefully, Monkey boy would remind me of J and that cosmic grace.

Because people like her, like B., like P., with every passing day in this hell hole, I come to realize how fucking rare it is to find them and be granted the gift of their care and/or compassion.