CRUISING THE QUIET COUNTRY ROADS of Western Pennsylvania in my recently purchased, jacked-up, matte black Wrangler, I do my best to fight the persistent thoughts of Chelsea from only three weeks ago. Her words still resonate in my mind. Her presence lingers like a ghost. I’ve done my fair share of crying, and blaming, and obsessing. But I’m past that for now … or so I’d like to think. The armor only holds for so long. I know that better than anyone.
But I also know I’m ready for a fresh start. Of that, I’m certain.
Taking in the farms and quaint countryside, the frigid late autumn air filtering in through the small crack in the window, I wonder why and how I even chose Buchanan State University. It’s named after an inconsequential president, after all, in a part of the country I’ve never been to before. But after being dumped and needing to figure out my next steps, I had to make a choice. BSU has what I need most; it’s far enough from D.C. to escape the thoughts of Chelsea, and far enough from Florida to keep my childhood in the rearview. Maybe that’s why I ended up here after all … it’s the farthest college from Florida to accept me.
Out of all the colleges and campuses I researched, this place had everything else I was looking for, too, beyond the needed distance. After spending three years in metropolitan D.C., I needed beautiful woods, rolling hills, and the kind of tranquility you can only find this far from the city. Being from the damn swamp practically and living as country a life as I did growing up, D.C. was always completely foreign to me. The persistent horn-honking, the ‘hold no doors, say no thank yous’ mentality of its high-strung population, and the bumper-to-bumper traffic, regardless of the time of the day, all lead to a healthy distaste for city life. No way was I going back to D.C., and no way was I going back home; not after the childhood I had. In my eyes, I have no family, and no friends outside of the fellow soldiers I’ve met along the way, who have scattered like cockroaches to new duty stations and new responsibilities. Most have forgotten about good ol’ Sergeant Bishop by now.
As I drive, the cold wind rustling the thick beard a medical retirement has allowed me to grow, I hope it’s not a mistake to attend a school where I know no one. I worry that I may have acted impulsively after Chelsea dumped me. The anxiety of such a decision being made on a whim is now suffocating, through hindsight.
In the beginning, when my medical discharge was finalizing, the idea of going somewhere new, somewhere where I was an unknown, seemed like a damn good idea. The only good one, really. I wanted to start a new chapter in my life—to find my new normal. So, with that in mind, I applied to schools as far north as Binghamton and as far south as Clemson, and everywhere in between, trailing the Appalachians and all its beautiful glory. Now, as I drive up on Main Street, in the little town of Crescent Falls—home to Buchanan State—a constricting wave of nervousness charges up from my gut to my throat. I’m so used to pushing past these bouts of numbing anxiety that it’s been hard to accept that maybe they’ve gotten worse, maybe they’ve gotten harder to ignore.
Do I really have the strength to do this on my own?
I scoff, shaking my head as I eye myself in the rearview, annoyed that I’ve let this new chapter be soiled so soon. Forcing the doubts and anxiety back, I think about what’s to come—the excitement of a new life. The possibilities. The potential. I can be whoever the fuck I wanna be.
I locate my new apartment complex just past the main road, bordering the college buildings and dormitories that make up the core of the university campus. I take a moment to admire the beautiful snow-tipped Crescent Mountains. The serrated peaks serve as a backdrop for this area.
Having set everything up online ahead of time, it takes only a few minutes in the leasing office to sign all the paperwork and grab my keys. I drive around the winding complex roads, looking for Building E, while taking in what will be home for, at least, the next six months. Every building looks the same—brick foundation leading to a dreary pale blue siding, inadequately small, black shuttered windows—like some suburbia nightmare, and the parking lot is a testament to social class discrepancies; cars that look to be running on hope and prayer alone share the lot with Beemers and F-250s lifted so high it makes me wonder if Shaq might have one just like it. I guess I’m adding to that discrepancy with my Wrangler, but hell, I earned it. It’s the vehicle I always wanted, and after becoming bomb feed, I handed over every dime I made during my last deployment to get it. I refuse to feel bad about it.
Finally spotting Building E and pulling into a parking space, I laugh aloud as I notice the trash bins, even before the start of the semester, are filled to the brim with empty Busch boxes and an equal amount of fast food refuse. Hopping out of the Wrangler, I snatch my large duffle bag—the one that’s been with me since basic—from the back seat, and I shoulder it, closing the door behind me. The boxes, I’ll grab later.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to feel better about all this as I head toward the front door, trying to focus on the natural beauty that surrounds me, the invigoration of a fresh start, and not the numbing bite of the fierce wind. And not the anxiety that sits at the base of my throat.
I’ve managed to find a veteran roommate online, so I’m not as nervous about signing up to live with a stranger as I might be otherwise. Having been in the Army, I’ve met my fair share of people. I’ve liked quite a few of them, loved a handful, and hated damn near most. I’m not holding my breath here, but I’d rather take my chances with a veteran than a civilian any day.
Entering the building, I look around for apartment E-6, eventually spotting it down the hall, and make my way toward it. I open the door and pop my head in, finding a mostly barren living room—no TV—and cheap, particle board furniture that I’d expect to find in a barracks room or hospital, not a ‘fully-furnished’ apartment.
I guess this is what ‘fully-furnished’ means in a college town.
Stepping inside, I shut the door behind me, noticing one of the two rooms has the door closed and an eruption of lights and sounds spilling through the cracks. Periodically, a man’s voice yells out in frustration, followed by the sounds of plastic hitting wood, and the familiar pings and dings of a video game in play.
Fucking gamers.
I shake my head as I make my way toward the open door across from the gamer’s room, and I flip on a light. The small room is sparse, just a twin bed, dresser, and desk. Tossing my bag onto the flimsy bed and paper-thin mattress, I open it and begin unpacking, still taking in my surroundings. There’s a twenty-inch television on a dresser that looks like it was made in the 90s, a large hump protruding from the back and rabbit ears sitting unsteadily atop it.
Nodding toward the set as if it were alive and breathing, I mutter, “I think you and me are gonna be fast friends.”
The anxiety inside me beckons as I stuff clothes into the dresser drawers, my thoughts interspersed with Chelsea, this new, strange, yet oddly familiar environment, and the choking realization that I am no longer a soldier. And I never ever will be again.
I’m a civilian now. And I’m doing this all on my own.