I was living in a homeless shelter long-term because I'm gay and my mother kicked me out. I was lucky enough to find a shelter where I could have my own "room"/stall(barely big enough for a bed, a fridge and a sink, but I could lock it and feel somewhat safe). I was attending university at the time, as well as weekend classes through a nonprofit to help me get into a graduate program that would give me enough scholarship to get an actual apartment. To survive in the meantime, I had to work a part-time job. In other words, I worked about 100 hours/week, I slept 5 hours on the good nights and I was constantly exhausted and on the verge of a mental breakdown.

We didn't have bathrooms in our individual stalls, but there was one public bathroom in the public; and I discovered one night that one of the exposed pipes going through my stalls was linked to it. That night, the pipe burst. Essentially, all of the piss, shit and vomit of all the homeless people in the city started flooding my room. I do mean flooding. After a few minutes, I was literally knee-deep in human excrements.

Nobody was available to help in the middle of the night, so I had to figure out how to push the pieces of the pipe back together, while tolerating the literal waterfall of shit and piss cascading on my face and chest. It took me a while but I managed it. All of my worldly possessions were still drenched in liquefied feces, though, including all of my clothes. The shelter's public showers were also closed at night and wouldn't open until the next morning, so I couldn't wash myself. I spent the rest of that night up, crying and considering just ending my life here and there, scrubbing the room and my things the best I could.

For about 6 months afterward, I still lived in that same room, and the stench never went away. When people ask me what I remember of the time when I was homeless, that foul smell is the first thing that comes to mind.