Hello everyone.
I've been poking around on here for several weeks and have decided that perhaps I might give this a go. So, after a stiff drink, I've mustered my courage and I think I'm ready.
I'm Maddie. There are very few people who know me by that name, but that number has been seeming to grow recently, and I see that as a very good thing.
Not really very good at telling compelling narratives about myself, but I will do my best, as others have done.
I was born in 1983 to a southern baptist family in Atlanta Ga. While I don't really remember most of the begging parts of my existence on this planet, the first real memory I have is of my first day of pre-school.
I was nervous as anyone could be walking in that day, and I didn't make it far before I was greeted by this sweet little blond girl. She wasn't shy at all. She walked right over, and said "Hi there! What color are your nails?" I, confused by such a question, looked at my fingers and said "um... I don't know, kinda pinkish I guess?" She looked at them, then showed me her bright red fingernails, giggling. We became instant friends and played together for the rest of the afternoon.
When my mother picked me up later, I told her of my new friend, and that I wanted pretty nails like hers. She scolded me. Telling me those things were for girls, and that I should be ashamed for asking. Later that day, when mother was making dinner, I got into her makeup bag and found some polish. I had just managed to get the bottle mostly open when she found me. I was beaten with a spoon then, and later with my dads belt when he returned home from work.
From then on, even from that age, I knew that something was "wrong" with me, and that I should be a good little boy and do what was expected.
Later, when I was about 8-9, I was having a bit of a depressive episode I guess. It was the first time that I really lashed out and acknowledged that I hated my body, I hated myself, and I just wanted to die. I spent the entire day, balled up in the corner crying and screaming. My mom tried to talk to me, but I wouldn't hear it. When my dad got home, and found me there, at first he was concerned. He asked me what was wrong, and I told him. I then remember him getting very angry, snatching me up and beating me. He told me that he was ashamed of me, and that I had better quit with all "this nonsense" and grow up. That he wasn't going to tolerate it, that I was a boy and boys don't cry.
From then on out I repressed everything. I knew no one would hear me. I knew it was somehow my fault. That I was simply defective. I worked tirelessly to try to compensate for this. Countless awards and achievements... Trying to make my dad proud of me.
Ive attempted suicide once(15) and seriously considered several other times as stuff would bubble up that I couldn't deal with.
Aside from that, I've been pretty good at repressing things... Life went on. I got married. Had kids... Until February of this year.
A young woman, a friend of mine called me one night from a rooftop in Boston. She had experienced about as bad of a year as anyone could. She had climbed that building with the intention to jump, and had called to say goodby to the only friend she thought she had. That was the longest night of my life. In the end, I shared my secret with her. In hopes that she could know that she was not the only one with a hard life. That others suffer. My secret turned the tide that night. For her and I. She got off that ledge and I spiraled into a deep depression.
It was like all those years had bubbled up and exploded like a shaken champaign bottle. I wrestled with it alone until July, when on a whim I decided to tell my friends on
App.net what was going on with me. Their support has been awesome, and it gave me the courage to eventually tell my wife. Since then I have met with a therapist and have officially started down the path that will ultimately lead to my lifelong dream coming true. For the first time in my life, I'm excited about the future. I look forward to sharing my journey with you all.
Thanks for reading
