I got kicked out of home. It didn't last long, but was something of a reflection of my family situation in general. I never got pregnant, did drugs or assorted rebel behaviour. My parents just didn't get down with my lack of respect for imposed authority.
I spent three assorted months house sitting. Nothing seemed more magical then a place to myself.
I questioned the beliefs I was raised with late at night, realizing they'd have to become mine, and not sure if they could.
I built. Houses, with my Dad.
I passed my road test and took to driving like I was made for it.
I dedicated myself to judo, and subsequently reached my peak.
I struggled to establish a social group after the six month trip earlier that year threw a massive friggin' wrench in the one I was supposed to have.
For whatever reason, all that compiled into a belief that seventeen is independence, freedom and life more abundantly.
In the month before I turned eighteen I bought my own little car that I learned to love. I also graduated, put a down payment on a place, moved out and got a full time permanent job.
Maybe it's just that I never much cared for being an adult.