Freshman
My first year of college post-Marine Corps.

I loved college.
The cozy library with coffee-stained air. The old brick buildings protected from the sun underneath the cool shade of oak trees. Walking to class, coffee in hand, warm sun, backpack filled with notebooks and my computer. The long nights studying for exams. Falling in love with writing. Losing myself in a research project. Staring through the library windows to let my mind breathe. Observing the trees dressed in seasonal clothes. Golden red leaves for fall. Plump snow-covered branches for winter. Pink flowers for spring.
Those were the experiences I looked for when I applied to college. Not the partying or late nights learning my alcohol limits. I learned that in building 1403 at 29 Palms. I was here to enrich my mind. That was my goal when I applied to Olivet Nazarene University in the fall of 2014. At the time, I was getting ready to exit the Marine Corps. My second Afghan deployment still fresh enough that the sleepless nights hadn’t yet manifested into a waking nightmare.
What I didn’t expect was the jarring inability to fit in.
My first taste of that was in the summer of 2015. Orientation day. The first hint that this was going to be a bumpy road. I didn’t know what to expect. Some email directed me to bring my parents, pack a bag for an overnight stay, and get ready for the next exciting chapter in my life. Ready to separate myself from all things military, I was eager to plug myself into the real world. I skipped the parents, packed my bag, and drove south to Bourbonnais, Illinois. A flat town surrounded by an ocean of cornfields. The same green and yellow sea that dominates Illinois.
A church service kicked off the two-day event, followed by dinner in the cafeteria. Standing in line, waiting to shuffle into the dining area, I noticed I was the only one without parents. Every 18-year-old stood with mom and dad, reluctant to let their sweet child go into the real world. The parents in front of me noticed I was without mine. The cigarette smoke that clung to my clothes deterred them from further inquiry.
Like a chuckling creek, the cafeteria bubbled with the low, behaved chatter of kids and parents. Parents recounting their “wild” college days. Plates clattering. Forks and knives tinkering. I carried my tray of food, which, to my horror, was served by Sodexo. The same company that served us half-cooked chicken in 29 Palms. I awkwardly searched for a table and found a group of future freshmen sitting together. I figured it was a good way to start networking with my future peers.
I set my tray down and introduced myself. They threw white Midwestern names at me and carried on their conversation. They clearly knew each other. Turned shoulders didn’t invite me into their circle. I interjected with a joke. It didn’t land. I anticipated this challenge as a combat veteran, that I might have trouble fitting in with normal people. I expected the challenge to be harder at a Christian school. The reality of social rejection pulled at my nerves like a steel wire.
Following dinner, we were shepherded into a room where we were given a sort of “welcome aboard” brief. Following this, those who had not yet selected roommates would now choose one. I didn’t worry because someone at the school office reassured me that I would be allowed to live in one of the on-campus apartments with someone closer to my age. When I explained this to the rep following the brief, a perplexed look on his face let me know that I had been fed bullshit.
“All freshmen are required to live on campus in one of the two freshmen dorms. Whoever told you that was mistaken.”
My eye twitched in hot frustration. My gums longing for the weighted press of Copenhagen. There had to be a way around this, but I played their game.
I soon found out that most of the freshmen networked with each other before Orientation Day and had found their roommates. Those of us who didn’t have one were given 30 minutes to mingle and choose a partner. This was awkward speed dating for the socially inept.
I told myself that I would fix this with an email. Explain to them that I’m a 23-year-old. I was a Corporal in the Marine Corps. I had two combat deployments to Afghanistan as a grunt. Surely they would understand that living with 18-year-olds wasn’t conducive to a positive college experience. And so, I let the mingle play itself out. I didn’t let the nervous tick of my future roommate deter me. I didn’t know that he wore swimming goggles as a part of his daily wardrobe in an attempt to “be different.” Even though he didn’t know how to swim. I didn’t know that he snored like a rusty chainsaw. I didn’t know that he whispered to himself at night. Talking to an unseen friend.
I would not be allowed to move out of the freshman dorm.
When school started, I attacked my studies. In high school, I was a horrible student. I almost failed high school. In fact, I think they only passed me out of pity. My school counsellor brushed away my hopes of college when I first met with him. He told me I wasn’t smart enough. That was the best recruitment ad for the Marine Corps infantry.
My intense study sessions were driven by this fear of guaranteed failure. I took every syllabus I received seriously. Read every textbook. Devoured every page. Hours of studying paled in comparison to the late-night hazing I received as a boot. I thanked my senior Lance Corporals.
As it turns out, all you need to do to get good grades is to put in the work. For the first time in my life, I didn’t just pass all of my classes, I began a streak of popping up on the honor roll.
But my social life deflated.
I tried. I did.
At first, I viewed the freshmen in my dorm as my peers. It also helped that my Irish genes gave me a baby face that didn’t betray my true age. I attended campus events, tried to make friends with everyone.
But I couldn’t sleep.
It started after I got out of the military. Nightmares of getting shot at. Being trapped in that flipped-over MRAP in Sangin. An amputee jabbing me with his splintered bones, screaming me awake.
I don’t know what was worse. The nightmares or the hyper-vigilance at night. The smallest noises sent my heart racing. A creak snapped my eyes wide open.
And while I fought for sleep in my college room, my roommate hovered over the glow of his computer. Whispering and laughing to himself. Quietly.
This began a vicious cycle of drinking as much coffee as possible to stay awake. I used Z-Quil to fall asleep at night. Z-Quil gave way to melatonin. Soon, I was at the doctor’s office getting a prescription for Ambien.
Soon enough, I couldn’t handle my roommate. I talked to the RA and explained his snoring. A chainsaw that tore the night. My RA understood, and he could tell I wasn’t having the best time living with 18-year-olds, so he set me up with a roommate who was leaving after the semester. He wasn’t the only one leaving.
Being a Christian college, there were a lot of strict rules. There were also a lot of scholarships thrown at high school athletes to entice high-level performers to an otherwise undesirable school. There was no party life. And for those who wanted the true college experience, they tapped out after their first semester.
The party kids went to a rock quarry, known as “The Moon,” to drink beers. The police raided a kid’s room on the first floor because his roommate found a joint in his desk and he told on him. A kid across the hall from me was discovered in his room unconscious in a puddle of Robo. Expelled.
My new roommate was as normal a kid as they came. His only flaw was his rancid gas at night. I happily took that over the swimming goggle whisperer.
My new roommate was having a hard time fitting in. For very different reasons than mine. And that’s not to downplay whatever personal issues he may or may not have been going through. But the social life didn’t fit his personality. So he was calling it quits. After Christmas, the room would be mine.
Once he left, the isolation began.
Ambien didn’t last long. It worked too well.
Due to a fear of reliance on the drug, I told my doctor I would tough it out. I tried meditation to help bring silence to my mind.
I stopped playing video games with the freshmen on my floor. Stopped asking if anyone wanted to do anything on the weekend. As a natural introvert, shutting myself away from the world was the easiest thing in the world.
I walked around campus late at night, thinking. Replaying memories in my head.
At the time, I didn’t think there was anything wrong, but something was bothering me like a small pebble in my shoe that I couldn’t get out.
One night, after my roommate had departed school, I was battling sleep. The fan blaring on high, as it was the only white noise that calmed my inner noise. My mind was on the edge of falling asleep. That tipping point just before the pleasant nothingness of sleep.
Thumping.
Adrenaline shot into my heart. I could feel my blood hot in my wrists. My eyes open like searchlights.
I repeated this process for what felt like hours. The rhythmic thumping above me snapping me wide awake with every thump.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I was frustrated with my overstimulation over a mundane noise. Logically, I knew it was nothing to be awake over. The thumping wasn’t that loud. But the soft rhythm was like a distant machine gun to some far-away part of my mind.
With every failed attempt to cross over into sleep, anger outgrew frustration.
Every. Thump. Woke. Me. Up.
I walked up the stairs. Focused on removing my imaginary threat.
I found the door. Banged on it.
Music shut off. The door opened.
A pimpled face with a snotty attitude greeted me.
“Stop fucking bouncing your fucking ball! I can’t sleep!”
The fear I hoped to spread didn’t register. Instead, the kid shot back curse words. A shouting match ensued. His RA ran down the hall to break up whatever had woken him up from his sleep.
The RA’s calm demeanor snapped me out of my rage. I became aware of how hostile I was perceived. My heart pounded in my chest. My teeth clenched shut. Embarrassment replacing anger.
I didn’t sleep that night.
My freshman year ended. I passed with flying colors. Something I had never achieved in my life. On the other hand, I was aware that I was struggling to fit in.
In the summer, I worked in downtown Chicago. I lived at home with my family. The feeling of isolation I felt at school became a distant memory. I contemplated moving to another school, but I enjoyed the professors at Olivet, and the faith aspect was very important to me. I decided to return.
My sophomore year started off in the dorms again. This time, no freshmen. This was done out of a necessity to save money rather than anything else. The same issues soon uncovered themselves like a corpse in a half-buried grave.
I wanted out.
I found an apartment off-campus. I requested to move out of the dorms, which required a ridiculous amount of paperwork. Prior to moving out, the RAs sat me down. Their impression was of another kid who wanted the party life and was turning away from God. My insistence on wanting to live by myself didn’t make sense to them.
I just wanted peace.
When I finally moved into my new studio apartment. It was like heaven.
Until paranoia manifested itself into a new demon. I bought a Glock-19, which was better than any sleep medicine I had tried. I came up with plans in case someone broke into my apartment. I knew where to shoot and where not to shoot because of the other rooms. I would wake up convinced someone was breaking into my apartment. The noises vivid.
By the end of the year, I was back in the Marine Corps. I joined a reserve unit in Chicago with the intention of going back to active duty following college. I would be a squad leader in 81s Platoon, Weapons Company, 2/24.
After my first drill, sleep came a little easier.