“Pam, you know it’s not about the money,” I said. “The money doesn’t matter. This is about you and me, and our family.”
To say that Pam was reluctant would be an understatement. We’d been married for a decade, and she’d seen this movie before. So many times, in fact, that she’d probably lost count. By the time I returned to Texas to complete treatment, I’d all but given up on my marriage. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t lose my kids as well. I knew I was in for a fight, since they were being fed propaganda. Once, when I was talking with Electra, she said, “Daddy, why won’t you go see a psychotherapist?”
This was rather startling, coming as it did from a five-year-old. Electra was a sharp kid, but still . . .
“Honey, do you even know what a psychotherapist does?”
She smiled. “No, but Mommy’s friends say you should see one.”
“Really? Well, let me tell you about psychotherapists. You see, a psychotherapist is someone who tries to stay awake while Daddy talks and talks and talks. Then he takes all of Daddy’s money, and Daddy feels even worse than he did before. Understand?”
“Ummm . . . please don’t see a psychotherapist, Daddy.”
IT’S FUNNY HOW you connect with some people and reject others, how the esteemed professional with the framed diplomas arranged neatly on the wall can turn your stomach, while a tough guy with an eye patch makes you laugh and listen. His name was Chris R., and he was my sponsor at La Hacienda. We met while I was completing detox and treatment following an encouraging prognosis on my arm. The first time we talked, I thought he was completely full of shit—like so many of the other screamers I’d gotten to know in AA and various other rehab programs. He told horror stories that stretched back to when he was a child having rock fights with his twin brother, the result being the loss of an eye. His stories were no different than most I’d heard—a litany of self-inflicted pain and suffering, all tied to alcohol and drugs. The hook for this guy was his penchant for getting in your face and lifting his patch, leaving you staring at a horrible black hole as he shouted about what the future would hold if you didn’t clean up your fucking act.
“They’re gonna love your bony ass in prison, boy!”
“Jesus . . . man. Get that fucking thing away from me, will you?”
That “scared straight” bullshit never did much for me. What got me, though, were the conversations we’d have late at night, when we talked about friends and family and the emptiness of the junkie’s life. We talked about spirituality and the need to embrace a higher presence. I’m not talking about Christianity, specifically, but rather a general acknowledgment of forces beyond our control. An awareness that none of us is the center of the universe. We are all of us—regardless of age, race, nationality, social standing—merely tiny pieces in a vast cosmic puzzle. The millionaire rock star is no better—or worse—than the ex-con with the glass eye.
If rehab is good for anything, it’s that it can, under the right circumstances, provide time and space for introspection. I knew something was different when I returned to La Hacienda. Despite all that was wrong and contorted in my life, I felt a weird sort of optimism. Granted, I was in the middle of Nowhere, Texas—the sheer isolation of which provoked a bit of perspective—surrounded by humans who weren’t caught up in the hamster wheel of life. Still, something tugged at me. The anger and cynicism that had become such a prominent part of my life seemed to be melting away.
I wanted something.
I needed something.
Spiritually speaking, I was a creaky assemblage of broken, mismatched parts: baptized Lutheran, raised by Jehovah’s Witnesses, indoctrinated into witchcraft, dabbling in Buddhism, sampling from a buffet table of new age doctrine. Nothing had worked. Nothing had “taken.” For the longest time I wasn’t even interested in trying. I don’t know that you could have accurately described me as an atheist or even agnostic. I was more of a drastically lapsed . . . something. I had always believed in God. I believed in Jesus—I believed he died and rose three days later. That’s the story I’d been told as a child, whether Jehovah’s Witness or not. So to the extent that I believed in anything, that’s what I believed. I just didn’t give a shit. There was no role for religion in my life, no place for spirituality.
Until now.
I walked one freezing January night to a hilltop in Hunt, on the grounds of La Hacienda. A fire pit had been constructed, and even now, in the dead of winter, flames danced in the wind, sending sparks high into the vast desert sky. The fire pit was a popular gathering place at La Hacienda—a convenient and appropriately atmospheric spot for reflection of a private or communal nature. I sat there that evening, staring at the flames, thinking about my life . . . about the choices I’d made and the consequences of those choices, both positive and negative. Something was missing.
I can’t do this anymore. This has to be the end of it.
But it wasn’t the end of anything. It was the beginning.
I stood up and walked in the direction of a small A-frame structure—more like a lean-to, really, just a couple walls propped up against each other. The building, such as it was, served as an outdoor chapel. Theoretically, it was nondenominational; practically speaking, it was a Christian place of worship, as evidenced by the large cross that hung from a support beam at the front of the structure. I stood in the doorway, staring up at the cross, wondering what to make of it—whether to laugh or cry or curse at its significance. I had been brought up to believe that the cross was a fraudulent image, that Jesus Christ had died on a stake. Satanists, obviously, believed something far more malevolent. Regardless, the cross had never made much of an impact on my life. At this moment, though, something about it seemed oddly comforting and compelling.
I took a deep breath and spoke aloud. There was no one else within earshot.
“I’ve tried everything else. What have I got to lose?”
With those six words—What have I got to lose?—a burden was lifted. Not entirely, mind you. But incrementally. I stood there for a minute or so, unsure of what to say or how to act. I have heard of spiritual rebirths, of people feeling the hand of God, or something like that, reaching down to touch them on the shoulder. Or seeing an image of Christ in the darkness, sweeping toward them and taking them in a warm embrace.
My conversion—my awakening, if you will—was far less theatrical. Lacking anything more than a fundamental awareness of Christian doctrine—and frankly feeling kind of silly—I sought assistance from the center’s chaplain. His name was Leroy. He was an interesting little dude who wore tiny cowboy boots and a huge cowboy hat. I don’t know if there was something physically wrong with Leroy, but he had an odd way of walking, a sideways lurch and shuffle, like his toes were folded under his feet, that reminded me of John Wayne. Leroy played an interesting role at La Hacienda: he was there to support patients in their quest for holistic healing; he was not supposed to impose religious beliefs on anyone. And he didn’t. He just sort of held the door for anyone who wanted to walk through.
“How do I bring God into my life?” I asked.
“Come with me.”
We stood before the cross together.
“Get on your knees,” Leroy said.
I shook my head. Even at this juncture, I was stubborn and prideful.
“No, I’m not going to kneel. Can’t we just pray?”
And so we did. Leroy led me through something known as a Sinner’s Prayer. As I recited the words, it almost seemed unnecessary. I mean, everyone knows Dave Mustaine is a sinner, right? How much more obvious could it be? Besides, I’d recited various versions of the Sinner’s Prayer hundreds of times in the past—it really was no different than the Third-Step Prayer found in the Alcoholics Anonymous Handbook:
God, I offer myself to Thee—
To build with me
and to do with me as Thou wilt.
Relieve me of the bondage of self,
that I may better do Thy will.
Here’s the truth
: I could have recited these words in my sleep. I had let them pour from my mouth so many times, in so many settings, without ever really thinking about the truth behind them. I’d been brainwashed to recite the mantra in AA, but I never truly understood the meaning, never gave myself over to it. I just responded reflexively.
Sure, I’ll turn my life over to you. Why not? My life sucks anyway.
To a degree, nothing had changed. I mean, my life was about as bad as it could be on the day Leroy and I held hands and recited the Sinner’s Prayer. My wife had filed a restraining order against me. I rarely saw my children. My arm was getting better, but I still doubted that I would ever resurrect my music career—and frankly I didn’t care. And yet . . .
There was hope. I don’t know where it came from or why it came. But it was there nonetheless.
It wasn’t long afterward that I fell to my knees and said all the prayers and accepted Jesus Christ into my life. It didn’t happen without some resistance on my part, and God knows that in the years since I have been at times inconsistent in following a Christian way of life. I am not an extremist. I am not a fundamentalist. I have lapsed in ways large and small. I curse. I do not always exercise the patience and tolerance I should. But I believe in God and I believe that Jesus is my savior, and those are the overriding principles that guide my life.
When I called Pam to tell her of my conversion, I expected a skeptical response. What I got was something else entirely.
She laughed.
“This isn’t funny!” I said.
“I know,” she said. “But all my friends told me this would happen. They knew you’d come around. That’s why I’m laughing.”
“But you’re happy, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
The reconciliation was far from painless. There were more meetings, just as there had been in Arizona during my previous stint in rehab. We did the big family gathering and intervention, during which I was again confronted with all of my transgressions. I deserved it, of course; I had brought it on myself. But that didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. In order to salvage our marriage, Pam and I talked through all of our problems and issues, most of which were really my problems and issues. The majority of those stemmed not just from my drug use but from my work. I don’t want to make excuses, but the truth is, the Megadeth lifestyle simply was not conducive to family life. The music business really is sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, and if you are married and want to be monogamous, and you want to lead a coherent life, it’s a struggle. It’s a terrible environment if you have a history of promiscuity and drug addiction, which, obviously, I did. There had been times when I’d been out on the road, and for no apparent reason Pam and I would have a long-distance fight. The fight would give me an excuse to go from Hmmm . . . to Oops!; from merely looking to allowing myself to be pawed; from having a drink to having one too many. All of these moral transgressions I blamed on things happening at home: problems with the kids, problems with money, problems with my wife. The reality is that I had to take responsibility for these issues and behave differently. I had to be a better person.
Here’s the thing, though: it’s not all about conviction and sturdiness. Sometimes it’s about being smart enough to avoid temptation. If you’re a weekend warrior you can probably balance work and family without too much trouble. At my level? Much more difficult. Drugs are accessible and affordable. As are the groupies. The best way to stay married when you’re a famous rock star? The best way to be a faithful husband and devoted father?
Quit. Just walk away and do something else.
That’s the way it’s always been and the way it always will be.
But it’s easier said than done. There was a time when I would see people taking time off for their kids—people who had serious clout and prestige within the entertainment industry—and I would wonder what was wrong with them.
Why are you being so stupid and soft?
I see things differently now. Life really is about family and kids. I’ve worked my ass off so that I can spend more time with my children, but Justis is eighteen now, and soon he’ll be out on his own. I worry that maybe I missed the best years of his life, and that saddens me to an extent you can’t imagine. It’s that song, man. It’s that fucking Harry Chapin song, “Cat’s in the Cradle.” You hear it when you’re a cynical teenager, or a hard-partying, childless, heavy metal guitar player, and you think, What a fucking wimp! Then you get to be my age, pushing fifty, and you look at your kids, grown in the blink of an eye, and suddenly the song takes on a whole different meaning.
There were planes to catch and bills to pay.
He learned to walk while I was away.
I hear that song now and I don’t laugh or sneer. I want to cry. Same thing with Cat Stevens’s “Father and Son,” or even John Mayer’s “Daughters.” These are songs that tug at the heartstrings, that speak to parents. And that’s what I am above all else: a father. Thing is, when you are driven to succeed, as I certainly was, and start working to the degree where nothing else matters, you totally lose sight of what’s important. That’s what happened to me. And in the end, if you care enough, you find yourself in rehab, spouting the Serenity Prayer over and over. Or some version of it, anyway, which, at its core, is simply this:
“Fuck it.”
SO I WENT home to Arizona, back to my wife and kids, and tried to rebuild my life—a happier, healthy version of my life, anyway. Among the people I met who helped in this journey was Darian Bennett, a former marine and NFL linebacker. Darian also was an accomplished martial arts instructor as well as a Christian, and soon we were training together and hanging out. I felt like we had a lot in common, except for the part about him being a marine and a former professional football player, and me being a rock star and recovering drug addict. Fundamentally, we were both fighters, and we connected on that level. Although our backgrounds were vastly different, we shared a warrior’s mentality. It helped, too, that Darian was several years older than I was and far more entrenched in the Christian lifestyle. I needed a mentor at this time—a father figure, even—and Darian filled that role. We’ve grown apart in recent years, especially since I moved back to California, but for a while I considered him one of my closest friends, and I will always appreciate his guidance and companionship.
Part of the problem, I discovered, was that I had very few male friends. Oh, I had “buddies,” partners in crime . . . but no true friends. The friends I did have were either unhealthy relics of an earlier life—a life I was trying to escape—or professionals with little time to invest in friendships. Such is the burden of being a successful man in today’s society. Again, it comes down to setting priorities. You work endlessly to achieve success and provide for your family, and then you wake up one day to discover you have few people with whom to share that success. Moreover, it was a struggle for me to break out of the artifice of adolescent male relationships. I was good at getting drunk or stoned and chasing women or getting in fights. Grown-up male bonding? I didn’t know anything about it.
Electra winning everything in sight again at her horse shows. With her horse of the year, Gerritt.
Me, Justis, and Electra white-water rafting the American River on 3s and 4s, summer of 2009.
In the interest of enlightenment, I tried (again) to join a men’s group, this time bringing a better attitude and a clearer head. What I sought was a life outside Megadeth, a life that would supplement my family in a healthy, positive way. Through all of this I continued to tiptoe down the path of Christianity and enlightenment, trying simultaneously to understand that most of my problems could be traced back to issues of abandonment in my childhood while also accepting responsibility for my misdeeds; simply put, a shitty upbringing does not relieve you of the burden of accountability.
Life goes on. Deal with it.
I had allowed myself to become a victim, and in many ways I hated myself for it.
There were things I recognized about my own addictive behavior
that didn’t necessarily dovetail neatly with twelve-step protocol. For example, I recognized that I wasn’t the kind of guy who couldn’t stop after one or two beers. For me it was more a matter of understanding that I’d have one or two beers, and then someone would say, “Hey, let’s do a line of coke!” And then I’d be off to the races. I understood the domino effect. If I didn’t drink heavily, I didn’t get in trouble. Consequently, now I hardly drink at all.
Come again?
Right . . . here’s the controversial part.
When I speak of sobriety, I am not referring to abstinence in the strictest sense of the word. I haven’t done cocaine or heroin in many years. There have been a couple minor slips since 2002 involving pain medication related to a serious and ongoing degenerative disc condition in my neck, but I place that in a different category. Eventually, that problem will require surgical intervention—all those years of headbanging take their toll! But I do enjoy a glass of wine occasionally. And that’s about it: a single glass, an hour or so before I go onstage or when I go out to dinner with my wife. Rarely does one glass become two. The first few times I did this, an army of people cried bullshit. Everybody said it wouldn’t work: abstinence, they said, was the only strategy for someone like me. I understand the sentiment. Alice Cooper did the same thing: got saved through Christ’s intervention and simply stopped drinking on his own. No meetings, no twelve-step programs. Know what I said when I heard that?
Mustaine Page 26
