When my parents told me they were splitting up, I was 15 and furious. It was an abstract, all-consuming kind of anger, alien to the hitherto conscientious, happy kid I had been. With the upset turbocharged by adolescent angst, I resolved to behave as badly as I could: if they were going to tear my life apart, well, I’d muck in.
In hindsight, my rebellions were pretty gentle – probably testament to how safe and stable things remained, even if I felt adrift. Nonetheless, I bravely cycled through teen cliches, beginning by escalating my casual smoking to the compulsive level of someone who had been promised a reward for every dog-end. That’ll show ’em!
