3,000 Souls Down
Sacrifice of the Masses
NEW
RELEASE
The Origins of Ruin
I was born in 1968 into a world that I would never understand. The fact that I am here today is a testament in itself.
My father was fighting for his life in Vietnam while my mother was fighting for her life, and mine, in a hospital in Blue Island, Illinois.
Mom was a month shy of nineteen. She was a five-foot, ninety-pound Irish girl until I came along—a tiny frame carrying a massive nine-pound baby. I entered this world with fetal alcohol syndrome, already carrying the physical consequences of choices made before I had a say.
Mom was the product of physical and psychological abuse. Her father was rarely home, and her stepmother’s drinking and cruelty shaped the instability that had become a generational trait. My father’s family viewed Mom as white trash from the south side of Chicago and never saw fit to help while Dad was deployed.
When he finally made it home, Dad was stuck with a wife and child he no longer wanted. To be fair, as one of the few surviving “tunnel rats,” he had reasons, not excuses.
The Wake of the Smoke
The marriage was doomed, but both of my parents suffered through seven more years of each other. Mom chased men, Dad chased women. Like me, my parents would leave a trail of victims in their wake.
My brothers and I were never part of the plans.
Life was unstable—unmanageable, really. For the adults, at least. My brothers and I were in for a hell of a ride. At the time, I understood none of it:
- Not the war my father brought home.
- Not the ghosts my mother carried.
- Not the way their damage pooled around my feet before I could walk.
The world I was born into was on fire, and I would choke on the smoke.
Those early years drew my blueprints long before I ever could. Every crack in the foundation, every silence, every blow, every disappearance shaped the man I would become long before I had a say.
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Pain Sorrow
Guilt Damage Confusion
Loss Hopelessness
Anger Rejection
Betrayal Abuse Punishment
Criticism Disappointment
Fear Terror Death
The Tangle
But this story isn’t just about what others did to me. I was born with a few short circuits, and childhood frayed the rest of my wiring. At some point, the damage became so complete that I considered myself totaled.
That’s where the real confession begins—not in the nursery of chaos, but in the long, stumbling walk through the mess of being human.
Which brings me to the coil we all carry: the tangle of choices, consequences, and the lies we tell ourselves to survive.
Cocaine Was My Hair
I held the gun to my head. A Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. It had a single bullet in it. I pulled the trigger seven times. Nothing. The bullet was a dud.
As I mentioned, I started using cocaine during my last year in the Army. I was already a devoted fan of alcohol—one led to the other. In late-’80s Austin, that kind of excess passed for a social life.
It wasn’t long before I added marijuana, LSD, ephedrine, and ecstasy to the mix. I tried them all, but cocaine was my favorite. It made me feel invincible. Comfortable in my own skin. For once, I enjoyed my own company.
Men who used it the way I did were easy to find and easy to befriend. With cocaine in the picture, conversation came naturally, attraction came quickly, and sex became a marathon with dialogue. Sessions lasted for hours. Sometimes days. At the time, those felt like the good years.
Like alcohol, cocaine wasted no time turning from novelty into routine. I went from first-time user to weekend warrior in no time. I rarely had to pay for drinks or coke. New friends with benefits were everywhere. Most of the older men I spent time with—for a price—weren’t into other drugs, so simple logistics helped set me on my cocaine-riddled path.
But there came a day when the fun would go into overdrive. That was the day I found meth...
