About once a week Polina experiences a difficult bowel movement.

“It’s too hard,” she says matter of factly and under some duress.  Then she puts her hand on top of my head and presses down.  I lower my head so we are forehead to forehead, and we go through this together, as much as two people can go through this together.

“Ughhhhh,” she moans, and it reminds me of the sounds of labor.  Heck it is labor, just a different hole.  When she does look up, her eyelids are enveloped in red, signs of her strain to get the poop out.  Some time later, when she looks up again and straightens her back, I know it is over.  There is a wave of relief for both of us, until the next time of course.

It hit me in January that this has been a metaphor for my life these last few months.  I’ve just been moaning and complaining that life is too hard, and wallowing in my own crap, so to speak without pooping it out.

What jerked me awake is the recent controversy in Seattle about the RV encampments that are popping up around town on city streets like mushrooms.  There have been numerous reports of drug dealing, junk yard dogs barking, and raw sewage being dumped on city streets.  There isn’t a denial about this happening, but rather the debate seems to stem about what to do with the people in the RVs.  Much to the chagrin of homeowners and conservatives, Seattle city government isn’t willing to move the encampments without solving the issue of homelessness.

What jerked me awake is a local radio announcer whose neighborhood has been besieged by these encampments.  Referring to a caller who lived in an RV and hasn’t worked in construction since 2008, he said, “What’s the matter, is your arm broken?”  He pointed out the numerous construction going on in Seattle and the city of Everett to the north.  And then, he said something that framed the issue in a different light: “It doesn’t give you the right to park your RV in a neighborhood and dump your sewage on our street.”

That was my realization and my wake up call.  It doesn’t matter what the circumstances, even noble, that led someone to become homeless.  It doesn’t give them a right to park illegally and dump raw sewage in front of someone’s house.

I have been alive but in some areas have given up on life.  Metaphorically speaking, I allowed myself to fall backwards, and because I already felt so badly, I didn’t care.  I didn’t have control over my present, so I willingly gave up control entirely.  But from another perspective, I controlled my demise.  From this angle, it was deeply satisfying.  To control your demise meant to finally be successful in something.

And what is my problem?  Is my arm broken,?  Is there something structurally wrong with me, or have I allowed myself to wallow in self-pity?

Yes, we paid the bills and I went to work when I was called, but I lacked the drive to do anything more in my life than the bare essentials- to feed and clothe myself and my kin, drive my kin to school and spend time in nature, and make sure she went to bed on time.  That’s it.

I didn’t want to do anything else because it was, “too hard.”  I knew what I needed to do, I just lacked the motivation.  But after a couple months, that observation by the announcer awakened something in me.  It revealed where I was going and what I could look like.  And it was scary.

I could live my life until I was old and grey and say it was satisfactory.  But I’m sure there would be disappointment.  Disappointment that I didn’t get up, wipe myself off, and try again.  Disappointment that my circumstances got the better of me, which I would blame on my circumstances and not myself.  I owe it to myself and my daughter to do better.  No the best, just better.  One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

And so I’m taking this step.  I’m getting rid of the excess baggage.  I’m getting out of the muck and leaving my emotional encampment.