It Smells Like Skunk

I walked into physical therapy the other day and smelt 5th grade. Why am I in physical therapy? My lower back has been in pain since October of 2020, but that’s a whole other story.

You know those times when you smell something, and it brings you right back to an old memory? That’s what happened. Except this time, it lingered.

5th grade was a big year. It was my first year of middle school, first year at a new school, and the first time I’d be in the same building with kids who were “a lot older than me” (or so it seemed at the time).

The night before my first day of school, my 120 pound Bull Mastiff got sprayed by a skunk. My dad spent the entire night trying to wash the stench off of her fur, but to no avail, that smell stuck to the walls, my hair, and unfortunately, my first day of school outfit. I was up at all hours of the night, so besides the fact that I was not well rested, I also knew that I had to go to school reeking of skunk, and there was nothing I could do about it.

The next morning I tried my best to mask the smell. I took a shower, used body spray, and prayed to the Middle School Gods that no one would say anything. I was already nervous as can be, so the moment I walked into the auditorium, found the row of seats I had to sit in that was specific to my homeroom, and sat down, all I could think of was, “please let me get through this day”.

Sure enough, a couple minutes later, a girl yells out, “It smells like skunk!”

I nearly passed away.

I was hoping she wouldn’t pin-point that the smell was coming from me, and while trying to act like I didn’t smell anything, I silently cursed my dog for ruining my chances at surviving middle school.

So, as you can see, 5th grade has its own scent. Any time I smell skunk, I rescind into the walls of my middle school, but the other day, it wasn’t skunk I was smelling— it was my younger self.

I have this really complicated relationship with school. I never liked it, to be honest. My mom would always say, “you’re so good at school, of course you love it,” but the truth is, I didn’t. I just felt like I had to try exceedingly hard to prove my worth and set myself up for success in the future. I was always overwhelmed, overworked, and strung out. So, did I like schoolwork? Did I like calculus? Did I like getting up early everyday for a meeting I had to attend? Did I like studying and juggling 500 million things all at once? No, I didn’t. I just had to, so I did. That’s how I saw it; I had no choice. Succeed or fail— and I was not picking the latter.

But this was all before I realized how absolutely privileged I was to go to school. How blessed I was to get an education and learn. Throw that aspect in the mix, and you can see why I have a complex with my personal journey with school. On one hand, I am so thankful, and on the other, I can’t ignore the fact that I didn’t ever really like it.

Regardless of how I feel about school, I spent 14 years in the Milford Public School system. That’s a whole lot of time. There are versions of myself that I see in each of the buildings that I attended, in the grades I graduated from, and in the events that took place each school year.

As I’ve gotten older, those memories have naturally faded a bit. I don’t always remember the specifics, and at times, entire events slip my mind. I know that as I age, those memories will continue to fade as I grow into new ones, but if I’m being honest, I’m scared I’ll completely forget the things that radiate the most prominent feelings. Like picking out my first day of school outfit, laying out my backpack the night before, sharpening my newly bought Ticonderoga pencils, and wondering what the year will bring. Those moments made such a distinct mark on me that it only took one step into the physical therapist’s office for me to be transported back to middle school.

I don’t want to forget these moments. I don’t want to only remember them when I get a whiff of that particular scent. It makes me nervous that one day, they’ll vanish altogether, and then my school days will just be faded memories of a life I left behind.

I want it to be known that you can leave the younger versions of yourself in a time or place that is no longer apart of your present. That is perfectly normal and expected. I, too, would not pick to revert my growth and reclaim the person I once was. But, that doesn’t mean she’s not still with me. That doesn’t mean there aren’t pieces of her that morphed into the current “me”. Had I not been “her”, I can’t help but think I would not be me. That, I have to honor.

Which brings me to this:

You might be living a portion of your life that isn’t the most “ideal”, but please know that the phases you grow through are apart of your story for a reason. They will teach you something, strengthen you, and show you new paths to better versions of who you are. You might not realize that in the moment, but 13 years later, when you’re going about your day-to-day life, you might just get a whiff of a scent from that day, during that time, when you were that person, and that’s when you’ll realize— I am me because of her.