I tried to look at it spiritually, but it was a challenge. I kept thinking, What am I supposed to do, sit around during the holidays and make small talk with a twenty-one-year-old? I spent the next few months trying to process the whole thing, and finally reached the conclusion that love is love. Like Dad, I’d never been one to settle for the conventional approach to anything. If he and Brad had a connection and wanted to be together, who was I to question it? (After I finally met Brad, he turned out to be a cool guy, and I was glad my dad was happy. They live in Canada and have been together for a decade.) However, initially, it pushed my buttons and made me more sensitive and insecure.
As noted, I’d been through some difficult periods before, but suddenly my life appeared to be heading into the shitter: a train wreck. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel. And if I did, I feared it would be an oncoming train. Even more depressing, musically I had nothing happening and nothing on the horizon.
In total despair, the universe acknowledged my pain and tossed me a bone, or so I thought. Out of the blue, my ex hooked me up with W.A.S.P. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Without rehashing it, it proved to be a short-lived fiasco with Blackie and the boys. What looked like a real opportunity to play with a legendary band quickly devolved into another major disappointment. As the cliché goes, that was the last straw. In my mind, I’d contributed my pound of flesh. For a decade I’d withstood every disappointment, managed to overcome every hardship. But after announcing to everyone I knew that I was to be a member of W.A.S.P., only to have it fall through . . . I decided I’d had enough. That’s when I called Dad to say, “I’m giving up.” Fortunately, he talked me into one more try—which led to the creation of Death Punch. Pretty sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere. I’ll leave it to you to determine what that is.
So that brings us full circle. If you’ve been skipping every other chapter, searching only for Death Punch goodies, you’ve missed out on what made me . . . me. But you’ll be happy to know that the next chapter describes the culmination of an out-of-control addict who was about to face the Reaper once again . . . and probably for the last time.
CHAPTER 15
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
2010
Death Punch launched the ten-week Share the Welt tour. With my body still fucked, I decided this tour had to be a sober one or I wouldn’t survive it, physically or mentally. On the road, with the help of the chiropractors and massage therapists we lined up in various cities, I worked hard every day to rehab and get back into playing shape. I stretched more than an hour every day. It took a couple of weeks before things started realigning and I could actually play.
Before I left, I told Angel I had no intention of being “exclusive,” and if she didn’t like it to please, for the love of God, find someone else. Her welcomed response: “Just don’t tell me . . . and it’ll be all right.”
Knowing I had the green light, I wasn’t all that anxious to hook up. However, about two and a half weeks into the tour, in Boise, Idaho, our security guard walked two hot chicks backstage before the show. I pulled them into the dressing room I shared with Jason. They wanted booze, so we sent our security guard to purchase some. After the show, Jason and I escorted the girls back to our dressing room.
Both sober, he and I drank nonalcoholic beer while the two girls chugged the real thing. Jason hadn’t had alcohol for two years, only blow. We’d been drinking for a bit when I noticed that he’d picked up one of theirs by mistake.
“Dude, that’s real beer!”
He pulled it away from his lips and in disgust said, “Aw, shit!”
Instead of pretending it was an accident, no big deal, I added, “You might as well enjoy it now—you’ve technically relapsed.” (What a dick!) Then I used his “relapse” as an excuse to drink a real one myself. With that icebreaker, I power-slammed four in short order. I figured, if I’m gonna dive off the fucking cliff, I might as well do a cannonball. I soon found the beer lacking, so I sent someone on the hunt to get a bottle of Jack. No reason to tiptoe into a relapse. Bring it the fuck on!
We took the girls back to their car. That’s when the real drinking started. The hunt for cocaine soon followed. I woke up the next day majorly hungover and feeling really guilty. So much for touring sober. I was back on the party train, and I was determined to stay on it, even though it was destined to crash.
Angel called and said she’d decided she wanted me to be honest with her after all; if I fucked someone, she wanted to know all the details. (Talk about the need to experience pain.) She said she was tired of me being resentful toward her for having to hide my encounters. Wasting no time, I met a cute little Latina in San Antonio and took her with me on the bus to the next city. It was a cocaine-fueled sex orgy all the way.
Suspecting I had someone on the bus, Angel flew to Oklahoma a few days later. She kept after me, insisting on knowing who, where, and what. I was drunk, so I decided to supply her with all the details of my recent escapade—testing our new agreement of “openness.” Honesty, in this case, was far from the best policy. She went ballistic. For four days, we fought continually. I was miserable.
I remembered she’d been prescribed Adderall, so I stole some from her purse. I crushed and snorted them. Not bad. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so alert. When she caught me taking more, she tried to hide the bottle. That really pissed me off. The arguing accelerated. I insisted she fly home. I couldn’t wait for her to leave so I could have what I hoped would be fun. The minute she was gone, I upped the ante.
After that first drink in Boise, my desire to party had escalated. My hatred toward myself—and pretty much everyone in my life—was at an all-time high. I made a conscious choice to destroy myself on this tour and see whether I could survive it or if it would kill me. Either way, I was ready for it.
The routine consisted of snorting cocaine and drinking all night after a show. I’d sleep until four in the afternoon, then drag myself to a meet and greet with the fans. After forcing down some food, I’d go back to bed until an hour before showtime, get up, make a pot of coffee, and start warming up. After hacking my way through the show, I’d pour a red Solo cup full of Jack Daniel’s, adding just a splash of Diet Coke to top it off (an homage to my grandpa Dutch’s cola-and-Old Crow highballs). I’d chug it, then ramp it up with cocaine.
I did this every single day. Nothing could deter my quest for stimulation. I added a daily pack of cigarettes to the mix because coke and booze made me want to smoke and talk. We’d stay up all night in the jump seat next to the bus driver, chain-smoking and yakking away half the night.
I balled everything I could on the tour. I wasn’t very selective. A perfect example was a stripper I brought onto the bus. In between blow and drinking, we tore each other up. The next night Jason rode my bus because he wanted to party. It wasn’t long before he and my stripper chick were getting flirty; they went into the back lounge and locked me out. WTF! I repeatedly pounded on the door, pissed I’d brought her with me only to have her lock me out while fucking my friend. I kept pounding until I heard her say, “You’re acting like a dick.” Even in my inebriated state, I found it difficult to understand how I was being a dick for getting locked out of the lounge while she was servicing my buddy. Okay, fine . . . I could get blitzed without her. And believe me, I did.
To top off the shit salad that had become my daily fare, Angel insisted on coming out on tour again . . . for Thanksgiving. I could find little to be thankful for, particularly after she stole my phone password and read all my text messages. I’d gone out of my way to be honest with her about my tour agenda, but that wasn’t good enough. Oh, no! She needed to torture herself with all the details, and there were plenty of damning details in my phone.
I knew then that as soon as the tour was over, I was ending this madness once and for all. Aware that this time I was deadly serious, before she left, she asked me to buy her some fake boobs as a parting gift. Feeling guilty, I
gave in. Eight thousand dollars’ worth of silicone! Guilt, under the influence of booze and blow, can be very persuasive. Though fake boobs never did anything for me, I decided she’d more than earned them. She’d wanted them forever and, having put her through a hundred kinds of hell, it only seemed right.
Jason knew my situation with Angel. He said, “Dude, now that you’re breaking up with her, you’re buying her boobs? I don’t get it. You’re basically sending her out with a new lease on life at age thirty-six. It’s like you’re setting her up to find your replacement. If I were you, I’d make her sign over your dog Bean in exchange for new knockers.”
That may sound ridiculous, but he knew how much I loved Bean. This little Chihuahua knew all my secrets and was still there to give me unconditional love. In my inebriated state, Jason made a lot of sense. So I called Angel and told her that in order to get the boobs, she had to put—in writing—that Bean was mine. She agreed! I drafted up a contract. (Pretty rock ’n’ roll of me, eh?) I thought, If I live long enough to tell my story, this will be one for the book.
She ended up signing my homemade contract, but reworded it to read that when we officially broke up, Bean was mine . . . but the boobs were a Christmas present. (Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who was fucked up.)
I staggered across the finish line of the tour. I’d never been more relieved to see the gaudy lights of Vegas. I may have survived the tour, but that didn’t mean I had to end my suicidal game. Besides, the game was rigged. I controlled the dealer and held all the cards. Instead of folding, I went all in. I’d barely walked in the door before I ordered a ton of cocaine. For the next two days I orchestrated the perfect storm of drinking and snorting my brains out.
During this feeding frenzy, I made it impossible for Angel to reach out. I cut her off at every turn. There was no way I was going to let her manipulate me into giving “us” another try. There was no us. I was through pretending it was ever going to get better. I’d put myself in jail and kept myself there, and I was determined to let myself out at last, one way or another. I was the jailed but I was also the jailer—I had the key all along. If destroying myself was the only way to free myself, I was determined to make it a spectacular end.
At some point during this drug-and-alcohol orgy, Angel came downstairs and planted herself on one of the steps. Won’t she ever just give up? I thought. But instead of trying to guilt me into “one more try,” she said, “I’ve finally had enough. I can’t do this anymore.” Unlike all the other times, she was calm and resigned. I knew she was sincere.
This was my chance to be a little understanding. Instead, I replied, “Cool, be out by Tuesday.”
She was finally giving me an opportunity to take control of my life, and I wasn’t going to fuck this one up. Of course, while I waited for her departure, I made sure to verbally abuse her and do as many drugs and booze as I could.
My routine over the next week was to go to a bar by noon, get drunk as fast as possible, then order an eight-ball of cocaine. I did that four days in a row. Near exhaustion, I’d get a few hours of sleep, then repeat the process. My friends were calling and texting me with concern. Even my drug dealer knew I was in trouble.
“Man, you’re going pretty hard.”
The last goddamn thing I needed was a lecture on the sanctity of life from the man who was helping me kill myself.
“How fast can you get here with more blow?”
“Sorry, man, I’m not gonna sell you another eight-ball.”
“Half a ball, then.” No way was I taking no for an answer.
Even though he’d received texts and calls from my friends and my security guard, threatening to beat him up if he sold me more cocaine, my persistence finally wore him down. Besides, he knew if he refused, I’d get it from someone else. Ironically, I’d just met a friend of our security guard, and he sold me blow on the down low. All I had to do was get him high, and I knew he’d continue the supply. Either way, I’d score.
Though Angel and I were through, she couldn’t move out until she found a place. Since I’d been supporting her for the last few years, she had no money, belongings, or a real job. She been pursuing certification in Pilates instruction so she could start building a clientele, but until that happened, she was going to need my financial support. She agreed to stay in a hotel—giving me some alone time in the house. I took advantage of her offer and drove her into town.
Those few days alone weren’t much fun. Knowing I could keep Angel in a hotel for as long as I wanted, I arranged to fly out a chick I’d met on tour. I’d already booked her flight when my home phone rang.
“I’m not staying in this hotel another night! I’ll call a cab and be there tomorrow.”
“Fuck it,” I said. “You stay here and I’ll get a hotel room.” I quickly packed a bag and left for what would be the finale.
The next day I picked up the chick from the airport and headed for the Mandalay Bay. A meth addict, she’d been up all night. I decided we could both benefit from some food. We went to dinner, blowing a wad of cash. It was quite the extravagant feast, which we washed down with a few martinis. I kept texting my dealers, but no one would answer. I was on the verge of getting really pissed until she told me she had meth. Just knowing I was going to get high gave me a euphoric rush.
We purchased a refrigerator-size bottle of Jack Daniel’s and some smokes on our way to the room. Once inside, we started carving lines of meth. The music was blaring, the drinks were sloshing, and smoke choked the air. Our clothes came off and the party moved into the bathroom, where it continued in and out of the Jacuzzi for several hours until she finally passed out.
I power-slammed as much booze as I could to come down, hoping to pass out myself. It worked for about an hour, until my eyes sprang open and I was wired awake again. I started pouring drink after drink until I finally reached a dealer, who showed up with a shitload of coke. To thank him for the score, we went downstairs and sat in the lounge, drinking.
When we got back to the room, the chick was awake and angry I’d left her alone. I got rid of the dealer. When I showed her the blow, she calmed down. We did multiple lines, which resembled furrows in a snowy field, before plowing through them as fast as we could. During minibreaks from some pathetic attempts at sex, we continued snorting until she finally passed out again.
As I lay there, dazed and destroyed, my heart began thudding in my ears. The double bass was pounding in my chest . . . and then it skipped a beat before it began an irregular palpitation. I grabbed my chest, hoping I could force it to stop, but it wouldn’t. Nothing I could do helped. Electrical impulses were directing the rhythm section, thirty-second beats followed by a set of pulverizing quarter notes!
I started convulsing. My heart was spasming. Though I was burning up, my body shook like I was freezing. Flop sweats, like those I’d experienced following a horrible dream, drenched me. But this wasn’t a dream. This was the worst kind of reality.
As my mind raced, one thought prevailed: You really fucked up this time, Jeremy. You finally did it, ol’ buddy. You’ve gone too far . . . and there’s no way back. This time . . . you’re gonna die . . .
EPILOGUE
As I write this, I’ve been clean and sober for two years and two weeks; that’s 744 days. Having previously experienced sobriety for more than five thousand days, I’m only too aware of how the specter of drugs and alcohol continues to hover in the corners of my consciousness, awaiting the opportunity to dominate, derail, and destroy my life . . . once and for all.
Having read your way through some pretty ugly and disturbing sections of my story, I hope you can tell I’ve tried to be brutally honest, albeit with a measure of my twisted humor.
When I began the process of healing on January 8, 2012, the intention behind telling my story was therapeutic. I needed to clean out the garbage in an effort to make room for positive change. What I discovered along the way is that I share much in common with many fans, some also in recovery . . . and others
who are struggling. That initial draft eventually became Death Punch’d. And, with it, the hope that my story might benefit others.
My journey toward recovery began with admitting myself to a drug-rehab program and engaging in therapy to work on my unresolved issues (low self-esteem and anger primary among them). Initially I also attended some twelve-step recovery programs, but soon found I couldn’t just be another anonymous person seeking to remain abstinent. Once someone discovered I was in a band, things changed. In short, those types of meetings don’t really work for me (although if I felt an overwhelming desire to use again, I’d go to one in a second).
What did seem to work for me was the decision to quit harming myself . . . and meaning it. A strong connection to my higher self, asking for guidance, asking for the tools I need to do whatever will make life better, asking to be “used” for a higher purpose, taking part in a daily regimen of positive affirmations (“as a man thinketh in his heart, so he is!”), and making a concerted effort to eat healthy and exercise have helped me to feel better now than I ever have.
My relationships within the band have improved along with my attitude. In the past eighteen months, I won Revolver magazine’s Golden God award for Best Drummer of 2012, been on the cover of Drum and Tattoo magazines, helped create the franchise Uncle Colt & Cletus (with some exciting prospects on the way), and written the memoir you’ve just read.
Five Finger Death Punch released two incredibly strong albums in 2013. The Wrong Side of Heaven and the Righteous Side of Hell: Volume One debuted at No. 2 on Billboard’s Top 200 Album chart in August, and Volume Two also debuted at No. 2 in November. The first two singles went to No. 1 on rock radio. In support of the albums, we’ve toured the United States and parts of Canada, Scandinavia, Europe, and Australia. New and exciting band projects are already in the works for 2015.
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