Ok this is a SHIT story. Literally. · Mimi Ramsey Official

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Ok this is a SHIT story. Literally.

OOOPPPSSS. Yes. It is.

So this is a story of poop, patience, and a proper big realisation tucked inside it. Try not to faff, Mimi. Let’s get to the nitty gritty.

Sacred AF. Seven-day in-person Bali retreat. Done. Dusted. Finished. Epic. WOOP. I fricking loved it, all that jazz.

Came home to unpack, to then pack again, because the next day I’m off to a little tropical island to integrate a little bit. First little hollybobs in quite some time. SUPER excited.

Had a few chores to do because, duh, life. Buy more dog food for Nami. Go put electricity on. Do this. Do that. Adulting, but make it tropical.

Literally came home and did that thing you do before a travel journey. Go to the loo. Just in case. I don’t think I even had a poo actually, I think it was just a pee, but anyway it sounded better as a poo story. Let’s not split hairs, let’s split… never mind.

Flush.

Oh.

Water.

Oh.

A teeny—ish-little-shit waterfall trickles out the bottom of the toilet and starts filling the bathroom floor like it’s auditioning for Bali’s Next Top Plumbing Disaster.

Something in me EXPLODED!!!!

And I’m talking a scream. Not from the back end by the way. From me. A full jungle-echoing, what-the-actual-fuck scream.

Now this has happened before. It can just be a little knobbly wood thing inside the tank. A tiny wobble. A small fiddle. Sorted.

But this time I was like, nope. This is BIG SHIT. Capital letters. BIG. SHIT.

But I had to go. Friends waiting. Car waiting down the road. Boat to catch. So I’m like, Rico, we’ll deal with it, it’s probably just that little thing again.

Fast forward.

Get to the island.

Rico messages. “It’s still doing it.”

And now apparently shit is flooding out the bottom of the toilet like a torrential poo-nami (yes, I said it, poo-nami) over the bathroom floor.

Right then. Call the plumber.

Plumber comes. Back and forth. Back and forth. Conversations in Bahasa. Lots of nodding.

And then he says, “Sorry, Ibu Mimi… this is not the toilet. This is your septic tank. It’s full.”

OH MY HOLY SHIT SHOWTIME

So yes, I have a septic tank in the garden. I don’t know the what does what logistics, I don’t know the technicalities, but basically your toilet waste goes down into the septic tank I think. The ground does its thing. Nature does its thing. Bob’s your uncle….

Except when it doesn’t.

Because behind my house are rice fields. And when it rains, the water comes down the rice fields and beautifully lands in my garden. And apparently in my septic tank. Which then cannot cope with all the literal and metaphorical crap of life.

Here comes the next news. Brace yourself.

“Ibu… we will have to dig up your garden.”

I went into a proper paddy. And I mean Paddy Mc-Mimi-Rage-Meltdown. I have just planted new trees. I’ve just put new flowers down. I LOVE LOVE my garden. If you’ve seen my garden, you know I love my garden. It is my pride, my joy, my little jungle sanctuary.

But what can I do? I either live in a house of shit, or I tear up the garden.

So I get videos sent to me of diggers in my garden. DIGGING. Holes everywhere. Mud. Chaos. They build a new septic tank in another part of the garden. So now I have TWO little chimney-pot shit holders in my garden. Why two? I do not know. I didn’t ask. I didn’t have the bandwidth frankly

I come back. The house is muddy because digging plus rain equals mudfestival. I spend the day cleaning. My gardener helps me (he is about 90and totally epic). We plant new plants in the muddy patches. I’m like, ok Breathe. We move…

Last night.

Go to the toilet before beddy-bos. As you do doo (tee tee chuckle at my own words)

Flush.

And a delightful trickle once again wanders across the bathroom floor like it owns the place.

I just stared at it. Like, really? We are STILL in this shit-uation?

Message the landlord. Now we need the men to come and drain the delightful little chimney turret in the garden. Apparently what they’ve done is connect the old septic tank to the new one so floodwater can drain between them, but somehow it hasn’t. Technicalities I do not comprehend

Anyways

Well, here’s the bit that hit me as I was lying in bed thinking about all of this.

No matter what you’re shoving away… it has to go somewhere.

It has to.

Whether it’s thoughts. Emotions. Convos you don’t want to have. Dishes in the sink. Stuff in the kitchen cupboard. Files on your laptop. Money stuff you don’t look at. Boundaries you don’t set.

If you don’t deal with it, it doesn’t just disappear.

It builds. It fills up. And then at some point… it leaky leaks. In my case, across the bathroom floor.

In life? It leaks in your energy. Your mood. Your business. Your relationships. Your sleep. Your body. You can’t keep piling shit in and hoping nature will just sort it out if it's blocked. Sometimes you’ve gotta call the plumber. Sometimes you’ve gotta dig up the garden. So yeah. Told you it was a shit story. Proper full-of-it story.

But what would you say the moral is? Hmmm…

And more importantly… where might something be leaking for you right now?

Sorry. Not sorry.

WOOP 🤟

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