Monkeys and me

I'm sitting at home now, and I am thinking about monkeys. Specifically, I am thinking about an experiment conducted by behavioral psychologists that studied baby monkeys. They set up two dolls to be "mother" monkeys. One was a cold metal skeleton that was set up with a bottle placed in the anatomically correct position for the baby to nurse from, the arms folded just right for the baby monkey to rest in while nursing, et cetera. The other mother was a soft, plushy monkey doll, all warm fuzziness and cute. The baby monkeys were placed, one at a time, in the cages with the two mommies.

The babies got sick; some even died.

They died of malnourishment, because they wouldn't go to the mecha monkey mommy to feed. Instead, they cuddled with plushy fuzzy monkey mommy and never ate.

I wish I could say that I don't remember a time when I felt warm in someone's arms, cuddled and safe and happy. But I do remember; vividly, without error, I can recall that last moment where I received that contact from someone. To have it, and then not, is such a killer. I know that it was much too long ago for me.

I don't think I ever feel safe anymore. That's probably why I am so open in this forum. I have nothing left to lose. It's not like I am besieged by enemies or anything; I just have so little that I really care about that sharing it isn't a big deal. Maybe I am hoping for catharsis; who the hell knows? I do know that it sucks that I am wired like this. I know that I have one wish and no genie. I know that I am still loved but not the way I want to be. I know I have people, and I am trying to be grateful for them, but it's hard. I know that I haven't written a happy poem in three months, and that I lost the best muse I ever had.

I know exactly what I want. And that makes it so much worse to not have it.