I was 5 years old the first time I threw on a pair of heels, packed a suitcase and informed my mother that I was moving out. At age 10, I boarded a plane to swim camp and never looked back. My father, worried, followed me on board to make sure I was fine—I was horrified by his intrusion. By the time I reached 12, I’d begun fantasizing about boarding school and begged my parents to send me away soon after. At age 15, I volunteered in Venezuela for the entire summer—I left a few days after the school year ended and returned home a mere week before classes began again.
The summer of 1998 is rarely mentioned. That was the summer my parents parted ways and I flew between Tennessee and California roughly a dozen times in three months. Keep reading »
