I was on fire, once.

Punchline of the century.

It has been three years today, since I was engulfed in flames. November 19th 2020 is a date I've come to call my “other birthday" because it marked my rebirth. And despite all the smiles I shared throughout my recovery, in reality, it was fucking horrendous.

Many of you are aware of the incident, which tore most of the skin from my body. 60% copy and paste nowadays. I won't delve into the distressing details the event. It was a terrible experience, and a pool of water became my lifesaver followed by three months in hospital, skin grafts and rehab.

Today, I want to speak openly. I try desperately hard to hide my feelings and emotions, often using humour and a smile as my shield. Only those closest to me can see through this facade. I recall that after my accident, many of my friends were surprised to discover aspects of me they never knew, despite our decades-long friendship (I’m sorry Scott). Opening up to people used to be quite challenging, at least for me. This is why, before my accident, I placed all my worth in my appearance rather than my intellect. I didn't consider myself particularly bright, and I didn't believe I had much to offer beyond being visually appealing. A far cry from who I have become. I welcome challenges and embrace change. Every year since that transformative moment, I remind myself that "a lot can change in a year," and indeed, it continually does. Work, love, happiness. Everything changes. 

What I want to tell you what it was like - after the fact. From dating again, to the moment I chose not to kill myself. There was so much I went through, and to be honest, I have tried so hard to block it all out. I am also aware of the fact that, my words and my actions now carry weight - and if you’re reading this, I want you to know you are not alone. Don’t be like me. Instead, pick up the phone.

April 2021, just eight weeks out of hospital, I found myself still making three weekly visits to rehab for check ups. During this time, I had made the decision to return to full-time work. I vividly recall my very first sales call, conducted over Zoom. My hands were still concealed by bandages, my face was burnt and red. Much of my hair was lost in the fire, I was sporting a short bob reminiscent of Victoria Beckham in 2009, and I despised how I looked.

I proceeded with the sales call, adhering to the script. The client happened to be someone I had known for three years, and he had even extended a job offer to me prior to my accident. I presented the pitch and made my offer, ultimately, he declined the pitch. I know it was me. I wasn’t the same sales person I had been before. I’d lost the confidence and the flare.

As we concluded the call, he gazed through the camera and said, "I'm so sorry, Maddi, for everything. You're strong, it's hard to see you like this." It was the first professional "I'm so sorry" I had received. I responded with a forced smile and said, "Thank you, but life goes on, doesn't it? You take care." The call ended, and I retreated to my bedroom, I cried for about an hour.

After emerging from my room, I found myself unable to quell the tears. I lay down on the lounge, feeling utterly defeated. My dad, not particularly skilled with words, mustered the only advice he could offer, saying, "Maddison, you need to stop crying. Your body will heal. Your body will look the same. You need to get over this." I knew he was attempting to be supportive, but it was a blatant lie, right to my face.

His wife then inquired about the reason for my tears, a question that nearly prompted me to explode with frustration. It struck me as the most senseless question I had ever been asked. Instead of venting my frustration, I retreated to my room and sought refuge in a 14-hour slumber.

This scenario would continue for the next year. 

In May 2021, I made the decision to move in with my sister and her two daughters. Little did I know that the following year would be a rollercoaster of lockdowns and isolation. My depression continued to intensify, to the point where I seldom ventured out of my room. I resorted to ordering food delivery every day, not worrying about the impact on my weight. It was the heaviest I had ever been, and my room was littered with stacks of food boxes. Neglect had crept into my personal space, with unchanged bed sheets for months on end.

To compound the situation, I was required to wear a compression suit for 23 hours a day, extending from my neck down to my fingers and toes, and at night a compression balaclava. This was to ensure my scars would heal as flat as possible. What's more, I had developed a habit of smoking nearly a pack of cigarettes a day and drinking heavily, be it wine or beer, with reckless abandon. I was also on a daily regimen of 1200 milligrams of Lyrica, a medication designed to support nerve damage repair, but one of its side effects is depression. To counteract this, I was taking antidepressants that should never be mixed with alcohol. I found myself alternating between uppers and downers four times a day, leaving me with little motivation to leave my room, let alone shower or brush my hair. 

By August of that year, lockdown was still holding us in its grip. Before that time, crying had been a rare occurrence for me. But during 2021, it felt like I shed tears every single day. One Wednesday morning, around 11 am, I was supposed to be working, but I found myself immobile in bed. I physically couldn't bring myself to move, and it had been about a week since my last shower. It was at this moment that my dad, defying lockdown laws, decided to pay me a visit. He entered the room without knocking, and my reaction was instinctual. I let out the loudest scream and crumbled into his arms, weeping uncontrollably.

In hindsight, I believe my sister, who had welcomed me into her home, had good intentions, but she was ill-equipped to provide the emotional and physical support I truly needed during that time. She already had her hands full, and it was near impossible for her to comprehend the depth of my struggle. And I know I was anything but pleasant to be around at the time. How could I have been? 

After dad left, I undressed and sat on my shower floor, allowing the hot water to cascade over me for what felt like hours, in severe pain. I had no nerve endings. My skin was red and still showed visible staple marks from the grafting. I felt like Frankenstein. I sat there in solitude, lost in my thoughts. I’m not sure what they were. There’s so many holes in my memory of what I was thinking about at that time, other than how nice it would have been if I’d just died instead. Although I hadn’t been able to say that out loud. 

As October rolled in, lockdown was finally behind us, and I reunited with my friends for the first time since my return home from the hospital in February. Initially, it felt good to be among them again, but as we gradually resumed our regular lives, I noticed the threads of my friendships beginning to unravel. My friends started making jokes about my ordeal. It reached a point where on the first anniversary of the incident, we had a cake with "1 year" written on it, and the candles didn't faze me at all. I went to blow them out, and a friend I had known for over a decade said in front of the whole group, "Be careful, you might catch fire again!" and laughed. I joined in the laughter, but deep down, I was annoyed that my painful experience had become their punchline. Our friendship quickly deteriorated from there.

By November, I found myself single, and my friends and I began going out again. Being the flirt that I am, I started attracting attention from men. These men didn't seem to mind my scars. In fact, they found them empowering and attractive. One night, a guy gave me his number. Then, in a drunken state, a friend of mine said, "It's always about you. For as long as I've known you, you've always been the centre of attention. I thought the fire might have changed that!" They were angry, and our friendship came to an end shortly after Christmas that year. It was, in hindsight, a relief. 

To some, possessing an ego might be seen as a flaw. However, in my humble opinion, to borrow a phrase from one of the greatest Australian rock 'n' roll bands of the 70s, "ego is not a dirty word." Anyone attempting to compete with me for attention or affection during that period can simply go fuck themselves, and I wish them the best.

(Secondly, ladies, I’ll tell you this for free - no matter how ugly or sad you may feel about yourself - men, women, whoever you’re into - if they’ve invited you back to their place and you’re standing naked in front of them, rest assured they’re not looking at the little bit of extra weight you’ve put on, or your scars, or any of your insecurities. They want to have sex with you. They wouldn’t have asked you over otherwise. Don’t over think it. Go and have fun. Eat, pray, love. don’t be silly, wrap the willy etc. etc.)

In December, I was getting ready to house-sit for a friend, but I had an overwhelming workload. My boss kept asking, "Have you completed this? Have you done that?" and each time, I replied with a confident "yes." The truth was, I hadn't, and the whole project nearly went tits up. I should never have returned to work that year. I had tried to convince myself that everything would be the same as before. I was Maddi Scordia, and I believed I could conquer anything, all by myself. As had been my experience in life until that point. 

During this tumultuous time, a co-worker from New Zealand reached out to me. "Maddi," she asked, "are you okay? Tell me what's happening." I was silent for a few moments, then lost control of my emotions, tears streaming and heavy breathing, followed by a desperate howling down the phone, "I want to die, I just want to kill myself, fuck this! Everything hurts, I don't know who I am, I just want to be dead." I repeated that phrase over and over again “I wish I was dead”.

This co-worker, a perceptive and empathetic woman, probably sensed that I wasn't an immediate danger to myself, I was working from home and I wasn’t alone, the kids were there. She comforted me and later informed my boss about the gravity of the situation. Thankfully, my boss at the time who is to this day one of my closest friends, was who I was going to house-sit for over the Christmas break. 

So, I went to his beautiful beachside house, which was good for my soul, mostly. It offered me complete solitude, and the beach became a daily retreat. My mobility had improved significantly, and I was able to walk down there every day. The first week was tolerable, but during the second week, the hospital informed me that they would not be renewing my prescription for Lyrica. You should understand that this medication is highly addictive, and the 1200 milligrams I had been taking daily amounted to an extreme dosage of an opioid-schedule drug. It was an abrupt discontinuation. I attempted to renew it at the pharmacy using one of my old prescriptions, but they refused.

Suddenly, I found myself in excruciating pain, both physically and mentally. I returned to the house and filled the bathtub with cold water, hoping it might help, as cold baths or showers used to help snap me out of the effects of party drugs in a previous life. However, this time was different. I lay there, naked in the cold bath, trembling. I was ready to end my own life. I got up, got dressed and started to asses how I might do it - step in front of a bus or jump off a cliff – quick and efficient. I had settled for the cliff option, I was near the beach. It made sense. I thought to myself it would be over and my body would get washed away. There’d be nothing for anyone to find or think about. I’d just be gone. 

As I put on my shoes, something me made me pause. I can't recall exactly what I was thinking in that moment, other than the overwhelming desire to end my life. I stopped and looked at my mobile phone. Almost instinctively, I dialled the emergency number. "What is your emergency?" they asked. "Hello, yes, I am at xxxxx, and I need an ambulance. I want to kill myself. Please come and get me." I was actually quite calm when I called, and I truly can’t tell you what thought popped into my head that made me stop. I have a dislike of the idea of a God and a Jesus Christ or any other Messiah for that matter. I sort of hold the impression that God is a concept by which we measure our pain. But whatever it was, miraculous or not, it stopped me in my tracks. 

I was admitted to hospital for three days, and during that time, I didn't inform anyone of my whereabouts. The doctors who had treated me in the burns ward came to check on me in the physiatrics ward. They assured me that I had done the right thing, explaining that my brain, influenced by the drug, had been playing tricks on me, and even in that state of mind, I knew that.

When I asked why I had to quit Lyrica cold turkey, they clarified that it was the only way to break the addiction and coming to the hospital for support during the withdrawal was the right choice. They had warned me not to be alone during this period, but I, as always, ignored their advice. Nevertheless, I felt relieved, even though I experienced moments of psychosis, screaming and punching the walls.

By the end of the second day, I started regaining my mental and physical sensations. I was discharged the following afternoon and immediately called my mum. She took me back to the house I was house sitting in, and stayed the night. I left with her the next morning - not telling my boss and my friend what had occurred when he arrived back home. 

From January 2022 onward, things began to take a turn for the better. I took on a part-time job as a receptionist, leaving my previous role as a Marketing Consultant. My goal was simple: earn enough money to pay my rent and get me to April when I would embark on a journey to quite literally start a new life on the other side of the world, about as far removed from where I was. Those four months were challenging, but they paled in comparison to the hardships of the previous year. I was no longer confined by my compression suit, and I was gradually getting used to answering questions about my body with as much grace and composure as I could, both for my sake and for the sake of those who asked. It was slightly hard to ignore the glaring skin grafts that covered my chest and arms - I became ok with people asking me questions as opposed to just staring at me. In fact, I preferred it. 

During this time, I began seeing a psychologist, something I had previously been against - for fear that seeing someone, would be admitting that there was something wrong with me. It was the best thing I did. The 24-year-old who had lost 60% of her skin was a distant memory. The youthful and frivolous antics of those days had passed. I was now growing into a 26-year-old woman who had learned to see and think differently, to take time and care. I aspired to be the person to others that I had so desperately wished I'd had in my darkest moments. And slowly but surely, that fun and frivolous nature that I thought I may have lost forever, made a resurgence - I like to think this version of me, is the best one yet. 

Nowadays, I engage in remarkable endeavours simply because I can. I ask the right questions when I don't have the answers. I shake hands and establish businesses in spaces that were once devoid of opportunity, going as far to name them Phoenix, which is fitting title for a come back story. I am a friend, daughter, sister. All the things I was before, but I’ve just lived a little bit more. I watch motorcycles go around in circles and try to profit from it. But most importantly, and what I'm most proud of, is that I am simply me. For every fault, I acknowledge it and try to do better. For everything I don’t know, I try to seek answers. And truly, for everything I feel I might hate, I try, and desperately try, not to, because it is so much easier to be kind to myself and others instead. And believe me, that takes work. 

I'm sharing this story with you because I recognise that as someone who has deliberately put themselves in the media and developed a persona around sports, I have a responsibility to tell you that many of the things I do may appear incredible, but behind the scenes, it has been a journey with its ups and downs, one that I'm still on. Some of you might read this and think, "Yeah, I knew she was a mental case; she should have stayed in the ward," and that's okay, I don’t get to choose how you feel about something. Others might read this and simply say, "Jesus Christ" and pray their children never go through that. And I do also. If I could take the pain that anyone is going through away, I would in an instant.

My aim is to remind you that in life, you have the choice. And you should choose to live it. In fact, it is one of the very few choices you have complete control over. So choose it. Every time. Not matter how hard it is and how much it sucks on occasion, you only get one shot at living. And I’ll be damned if I die without having a bloody good time first. Life should be fun, and it will be filled with shitty parts too. But don’t let that overshadow the joy you can create in the smallest of endeavours. It’s there, everyone you will ever meet has had to suffer for something. You’re all living for the first time. Find the things worth living for. 

I believe I wouldn't be living what was once my dream now if I hadn't gone through each and every one of those hardships. Is it perfect? No. Far from it. There are tasks I struggle with everyday. There are challenges that I question how I might overcome. But I do. I continue to. Even when it breaks my heart, I still do. I take solace in knowing that most of my problems are probably small ones that I’m greatly blowing out of proportion, and the worst thing that is probably going to happen already has, and I’ve already had to reinvent myself once, if I have to start again I think I’d be able to handle it. But this is life, an evolutionary drive of starting where you left off last. It’s never the same beginning twice.

They say self-preservation earns no praise, but I've never been particularly interested in what "they" have to say. You are comprised of all the little things, and you should take pride in that. For everything you're doing, I hope that by reading this, you can perhaps do better than I did and reach out for help as and when you need it. I hope you take pride in every small accomplishment that leads to a big one. As you embark on your own journey of self-discovery, hardship, and life, I hope you find the people who make it all worthwhile. That's perhaps the most challenging part, but they are out there, and you will find them, even if they are over land and oceans, I know they are there - but you have to want that. That’s where you start, wanting it. After that, go find it.

So, happy 3rd second birthday to me. I was on fire, once.

"May you live all the days of your life." -Jonathan Swift

Ps. Thank you to my wonderful group of friends for the bottle of champagne last night and for celebrating my special little day with me. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.