Six months later
September, 1980

 

 

For many years now, I’ve felt a pang of anxiety as September rolled around. While driving to Brentwood Country Club to caddie this morning, I thought back to 14 years ago when I would have been starting my sophomore year of college around this time. It never came to pass.

My mother’s suicide the previous year on Christmas Eve had left my mind in turmoil. When I returned to school for the second semester, I was in no shape to drastically turn my study habits around and knuckle down. The second semester courses were as tough as those of the first semester, and I immediately started falling behind again. I couldn’t concentrate on my studies, and continued drinking to relieve the pressure I felt. I began spiraling out of control and partied hard to forget the predicament I was in. I managed a B in Calculus II, but the rest of my grades were Ds and Fs. By the end of the year, I had finished with a miserable 1.3 GPA, and the school told me not to come back in the fall.

When I returned home after the semester was over, my father kicked me out of the house. He gave me a week to find my own place to live and move out. He told me that if I wanted to ruin my life, I could do it on my own dime and refused to support me in any way.

I actually welcomed the split; I couldn’t stand to be around him anymore—he who never once acknowledged any responsibility for my mother’s leaving him or her death. Let him rot in that big old house by himself, for all I cared. I found a cheap apartment and moved out within the week.

I was my own man now, I thought at the time, to sink or swim on my own. Turned out it was mostly sink.