Nineteen. I was depressed and my grades were falling, so I decided to drop out of college and marry my boyfriend.
Why does anybody ever think getting married is the answer to some problem? Maybe because so many movies used to end with the happy bride and groom wreathed by flowers. Very bad propaganda.
I got a job in Boston and started making wedding plans. They were well along when I suddenly had a better idea—spurred, I guess, by some nameless instinct—and moved into a shared apartment on Newbury Street. That’s when I broke the engagement. On my own then.
A year later I had a relapse of a few months when I tried going back to school and ended up back in my parents’ house. Moved out with another boyfriend. Then we broke up and I was finally really on my own.
When I finished college at last, it was without any parental support.