It seems that with every rock star, every public figure, there's a story. Some sort of story where they suffered, but survived and hey, here they are for you to love and worship and call brave. Usually I find it all rather stomach churning, like being on someone else's rollercoaster after an exceptionally large meal.

Of course, sometimes there are exceptions, stories that deserve to be told. And not because the person wants pity, or compliments. Sometimes, you can draw strength from the stories of others. There must be a reason why we tell them, right?

Well, ok. My story isn't super important. My story won't save your life. Sure, there was pain and happiness and I grew and matured and whatever. Geez, usually I wouldn't be all let's share my past! But you know, things change. Obviously. I mean, I have a daughter now. And she's going to hear a lot of horrible things about me. That I was a junky. That I got kicked out of school. That I was never a Grade A student. That I dumped her mother. That I have last year's hair (a blatant lie).

So here I am, setting the record straight. I guess when the time comes, I'll show her my story and she'll know the ugly (but always with good hair) truth. Some of my story has been shared already, via tabloids and what not. But there was a lot of stuff before the fame, and the money and the really nice mansion. Before I found out I had a half brother and my father died.

I guess that would make a good title: Before. Hmm, I like it. God, I've done four paragraphs and I'm talking to the page (or bloody page, as my favourite pixie would say). I'm not a writer, not by any means. And I'm not a journalist either - I'm here to tell the truth.

Ok, so here it is: for Celeste and Angel, for Fay and my family, for everyone reading this (you sad, sad people) this is it. This is the truth. This is Matt Harris: The Early Years.