I went to jail in 1998. Here’s the deal. After my arrest the night Pamela and I fought, I was hauled in. After Pamela led the po-po to my gun safe, I was looking at a stack of charges: spousal abuse, illegal possession of weapons, violation of my probation from piloting the uninvited, and a few others that spelled “fucked.” After all was said and done in the courts, I pled no contest to the spousal accusation to avoid the much heavier sentence I would have gotten for weapons possession. The judge gave me four months in L.A. County Jail.

Jail was hell for me. I remember sitting there and talking to my manager at the time, and telling him how much I was freaking out. I was writing on the walls, counting the days. He was like, “Okay, stop counting the days. Just count the weeks. And every seventh day you’re there, that’s the day you can fucking lose your mind and freak out about being cooped up.” He was right. I had four months to kill in there—an entire summer. And summer is the season I live for.

I couldn’t see daylight at all in my cell. There were just walls all around me. My view was a tiny little window wide enough for my face, through which I could see down the hall. No bars, nothing, just a solid steel door. They’d open it twice a day to bring in food. They were casual about giving me my tray of mystery meat, but it wasn’t that way with my cell’s former resident. Before me, one of the Menendez brothers—I’m not sure which one—was in there. They painted a white line on the floor that he had to stand behind whenever they opened the door. Creepy. In my cell there was a little toilet, if you can call it that, and a bed. I don’t know what time anything happened, but I’d guess it was about seven or eight in the morning when they’d wake us up by turning the lights on, bright as fuck. Or they’d bang on the door. Every two days they’d take me out for a shower. And once a week, every Thursday, they’d take me out to a cage on the roof. L.A. County Jail was like this high-rise with nothing around it—no trees, no people, no nothing. You could see a piece of sky and a bit of sun. They’d always take me up there toward the end of the day so that I’d see sunset, or a slice of it. It was like an escape-proof pigeon coop and I’d sit there with tears rolling down my face, staring at a sliver of sun.

I thought about a lot of shit in jail, but when I was in that cage, I couldn’t think about anything else but freedom, about how much of it I’ve had all my life and how much freedom anyone who isn’t in jail takes for granted. Other than that, nature to me was reduced to cockroaches and flies. I’d get all excited when I saw them in my cell. I’d talk to them, I’d get down on the floor and watch them walk around. They were my friends. There were three that lived with me and I named them, Manny, Moe, and Jack—they were the roaches who lived in my trash. Those guys only came out when the lights went off at night. They must have done some bad shit because they acted like they were never getting out of that place. I just know they’re still there. What up, dudes? I kinda miss you guys.

It’s strange to look at it now, and I guess this is some kind of natural reaction to a difficult experience, but I see moments in jail as if they are scenes from a movie that I’m not even in. There I was, up on a roof in a cage. I was left up there alone for fifteen minutes each week. I can’t tell you how much I looked forward to Thursday. But some Thursdays I passed on my cage time because I just couldn’t handle it. I cried every time I was up there, thinking about everywhere else I wanted to be. Those weeks that I didn’t go topside, I exchanged my fifteen minutes of fresh air for a book. I just wanted to read and find a positive message, which I needed. Those weeks, Buddhism helped me more than going outside and dreaming about being free.

On my first day or two in there, I was initiated into one of the rituals that kept me going during my time in there. The brothers down the hall were beating on the metal bars, laying out a beat. I was so pumped to hear that, I’d jump up on my bunk and start playing the sheet of steel over my window. Drums! Thank God! Soon enough the whole block was rocking with beats. We did it all the time and you should have heard it. I wish I’d been allowed a tape recorder. You can’t re-create the sound of pent-up inmates—it is tribal, it is raw, it is so many voices and so many stories being released, all of them bouncing off the same walls that hold them all in. I looked forward to that every day. It was monkey see monkey do: It didn’t matter who started the rhythm, we’d all join in. And we’d fucking go off.

I looked forward to the weekends more than anything—that was my chance to get out of my cell and see the friends who came to visit me. I don’t think I can ever thank them enough for sacrificing the time it took them to visit. They’d have to wait for hours in line, get searched, and deal with the hassle that comes with the corrections system, all to see me for just fifteen minutes. When you’re locked up, you find out quick who cares and who doesn’t. Seeing those friends was a lifeline, but it wasn’t easy on me, and I could tell it wasn’t easy on them. I’d be sitting there in my blue suit with my hands and my ankles shackled, feeling like I’d murdered somebody. I didn’t expect special treatment, but I hadn’t raped, killed, or done anything that most of the other inmates had done. I know everyone gets treated equally in jail and that being confined is a psychological process designed to break you down. But when my friends would visit, they couldn’t believe what they saw: I was chained to the seat like a mass murderer.

There are two people who meant a lot to me when they came to see me. The first is Gerald Wil Rafferty, Ph.D., the man who has since become my life coach and spiritual leader. A friend told him to come see me while I was in jail. He changed my life and was there for me anytime I needed him. I was losing it in there: I didn’t know what to think and I didn’t know what to do. And when I met this stranger for the first time, I watched him walk up to the glass and wondered if he could really help me or if he was another one of those top-dollar, designer Hollywood gurus. He wasn’t. Gerald has such an incredible calming and wise presence that precedes him. Even through bulletproof glass, I could tell that he knew something I didn’t know and that he had knowledge I needed. He walked in holding meditational beads. He didn’t say anything, he just pressed his other hand on the glass. I put mine up to meet his, and I felt that this man had been sent to me. Right then I knew that everything was going to be okay. We both cried after that, looking at each other through the window. I wondered why he was crying, because I was the one in hell, and he didn’t even know me. Now I understand. He’s been nothing but a guiding light to me since that day. Thanks, Gerald, you know how much you mean to me.

Gerald set his answering machine to accept all collect calls, so I could call anytime and just talk. There were times when I couldn’t take it anymore, when I left messages about how I wanted to take my pants off, wrap them around my neck, and hang myself from the light fixture in my cell because I couldn’t stand being in jail another day. I could call him and talk about anything at any time: I could just call and cry or spill any random thought that came into my mind. He became my sanctuary.

Sometimes I just called to hear his voice on the answering machine—sometimes that was all I needed.

The second person I want to thank is my best girl friend, Diane. I don’t have the ability to put into words how she made my time in jail as pleasant as it could possibly be. I had a phone in my cell and could call her collect any time of the day and most of the time she was there to talk to me. I’ve always been able to relate better to women than to men and Diane was there for me; she was my angel. I would call her and she knew by the sound of my voice what I needed, whether it was music, a shoulder to cry on, or a best friend. Some days, she would just put the phone down for an hour and let me listen to music over the phone. I’d be on my cot, with the receiver to my ear, crying and listening to Sarah McLachlan. Let me tell you, when you call collect from a county facility, the charges are double and not once did Diane ever mention the cost. She is the only girl friend—and I mean a true girl friend—whom I’ve had in my life. She came to see me all the time and she was there for me all the time. My wife didn’t come, none of my exes came, but Diane did, and I’ll never forget that until the day I die. She’s heard it all and she knows it all—and she helped me make sense of my life when everything became nonsense. I’m at a loss, trying to put this down right now, because I don’t think the English language can capture how much I feel for her for being there for me—those words just don’t exist. All I can say is that from the bottom of my heart, D, you kept me alive, and I’m forever in your debt. I love you. And if you weren’t my best friend—and married to the man I introduced you to, who is also one of my best friends (and one of the best fucking DJs in the world)*—I’d marry you in a heartbeat.

I’d like to take a minute to thank everyone else who came to see me in jail: my mom and dad, my sister, Athena, Nikki Sixx, Mick Mars. And last but not least, Bob Suhusky, I’m telling you now, you’re a good man. Thanks for looking after my house, even though a bunch of fuckheads broke into it—that wasn’t your fault, bro. While we’re on the subject, I’m convinced that those nasty Pilferazzis are to blame. It wasn’t hard to find out that I was living somewhere else for a while. Whoever did it smashed the glass front doors of my house and instead of stealing the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of studio equipment, all they took was my 35mm camera. They were clearly looking for pics from my Going to Jail party. Whatever. For the record, Bob is the one who set my answering machine to accept collect calls, so he’s partly responsible for Methods of Mayhem. Without Bob, all those lyrics and melodies would never have made it out of the concrete walls of my cell. Thanks to my friend Bob Procop as well. I’ll always remember his visit. He strolled up and slapped porno mags against the glass. I thought I’d hit the jackpot.

It was less than a minute before the wardens confiscated his porno, but it didn’t matter. I kept those images in my head for the rest of my stay. You rock, Mr. Procop.

In jail, any “famous” person is separated—they call you a K-10, a keepaway—from the general population. But I began to feel so disconnected in solitary confinement that I started to think it would be better to be put in with the other inmates than be alone every day. When I was up in the cage I’d look across the roof to where the other convicts were playing basketball and lifting weights, and I wanted to be over there. I just wanted to talk to someone—anyone. I asked the guards if I could do that and they shot that idea down real quick. They told me that Robert Downey Jr. asked for the same privilege until the wardens caved and let him go out there. They said it was all of five minutes before motherfuckers were all up in his face. The guards told me he mouthed off and got his ass beat real bad. I said, “That’s cool, I dig the cage.”

In jail, all you do is eat, shit, work out, read, think, and sleep. I filled some trash bags with water and used those for weights, until they took them away. I did push-ups, I did handstands against the wall. I did anything I could think of to make one more day go by. My lunch came with an apple that had a sticker on it, so I took those stickers and made them into a huge flower on the cell wall. That kept me sane until I was allowed pencils and paper—that was a good day. I drew this amazing sketch of me under a tree, in the middle of nowhere, looking around at my life. I sat and made that picture in one day: It was a portrait of where I wanted to be. I love to draw, I love to put my feelings into symbols, but I’ve always been too impatient to take the time to sketch. Sitting in my cell it was amazing to learn that I could in fact do it well. It was the coolest picture I’ve ever drawn. (And I’ll probably never do one like it again.)

After a while I realized I had two options: I could make jail a really shitty experience or I could make it a positive thing, as much as it could be. I looked at my life to figure out why I was there and what I needed to change. I asked myself why in so many ways.

That was the upside of jail. I would have much rather done that soul-searching under a tree or in some rad cabin in Montana. When I knew I was leaving, that picture I drew of myself was the last thing I took off the wall. I still have it and I’ll always keep it. I’m looking at it now and it’s like smelling something from childhood: It brings me right back—a little too efficiently—to my cell. I hope the statute of limitations is up on this, but I took something else when I left: I took my jail shoes. They’re black with a piece of gray rubber on the toe that says “L.A. County Jail.” To this day, they’re my constant reminder of where I never, ever, ever, ever, EVER want to go. And they sit right where I can see them every day—in my studio.

You want to talk about powerlessness? Check this. I had been in the slammer less than a week, and loud and clear, I hear some inmates down the hall shouting, “Hey, Tommy!” I’m like “Hey, what up?” Those guys had a TV in their cell and they tell me how they’re watching my wife hanging out on the beach holding hands with “some surfer dude” on Entertainment Tonight or some shitty Hollywood news bottom-feeder show. Whatever.

I never saw the guys who kept me up-to-date, but those cons were like the fucking Enquirer, informing me of every way my life was turning into one big pile of shit. They were there when Pamela was on Jay Leno and Jay asked her in a really condescending way, “You’re not going to get back with Tommy, are you?” Jay’s audience booed and thanks to my fellow prisoners, I got the play-by-play. Pamela told Jay, “No,” she wasn’t getting back with me.

Imagine being locked up and hearing, through your fellow locked-up fuck-ups, that your wife is moving on. If that isn’t going to teach you that you’re no longer driving the bus down the highway that you think is your life, I don’t know what is. It fucking sucked and at the time I wanted to see what was going on, but thank God I didn’t have a TV. That box would have been in a thousand pieces, along with the bones in my hand and probably other parts of me that I’m glad are still intact.

To tell you the truth, what I’ve just told you is the least of what I saw and what I learned in jail. It changed me—how couldn’t it? One of the saddest things I noticed in jail is that there are so many disturbed people incarcerated who have no outlet to learn about anything or get motivated to better themselves in any way. The libraries in jail are wack. And if there is any place that could use a supply of meaningful books, that’s it. There are maniacs in there, locked up, with no information to learn about the world, which guarantees that they’ll be exactly the same when they get out. Good luck to you if you’re in jail and you want to change. All you can get access to are old stupid books that say nothing. The library cart was full of fiction—and there isn’t a place more in need of nonfiction than jail. Fantasy means shit when true reality is all around you.

I was fortunate enough to have books shipped to me during my stay. And all I kept thinking when I got out is that maybe some of those guys, had they had the right resources, stood a chance to change. It wouldn’t help all the convicts, but having real books to read would help some of them—and if the taxpayers’ dollars went to that, it might make a difference.

What I saw in jail was more insane than anything I’ve ever seen anywhere. And it changed me—I was in solitary, but there was a hole in my wall that my neighbors could pass things through. Even if you can’t see anyone else, you are connected, a part of a community whether you like it or not. I learned that inmates are the most resourceful people in the world. They make homemade wine that they call “pruno” out of juice, sugar packets, bread, and yeast. They put it in a trash bag and let it sit for a couple of weeks. When it’s ready, you hear a huge cry, all down the cell block: “Pruno!” The pruno would make its way around, delivered by the trustees. These were the lucky inmates—they get chosen to sweep the floors, clean shit, and serve the food, and they’d use their advantage and access to steal whatever the other inmates needed. Put it this way: If you’re friends with the trustees, you could get whatever you want. They’d change all the time though, because they always got busted. When the pruno was ready, they’d bring it down in a plastic garbage bag and hold it under the door. I’d pull the bag from underneath the door and they’d push on the other end, sending the liquid and the whole package through the inch-wide crack at the bottom of the door into my cell. The first time a batch of pruno was ready, I heard someone way down the cell block yell, “Send T. Lee some of that motherfuckin’ shit!” It tasted like ass, dude, but it would get you fucked up. Sometimes the wardens would come down and bust the guys making the pruno. And then we’d all have to wait another couple weeks for the next batch to ripen.

There were so many motherfuckers in jail who didn’t give a fuck about what was going to happen to them. If you’re caught smoking weed or cigarettes or doing heroin in jail, you get another year added to your sentence. Most of the guys didn’t really give a shit about that. I’d be sitting there in my cell, being offered everything—and you can get anything you want in jail. A joint would come through the hole in my wall and I’d say, “Fuck that, dude. I’m outta here in a few weeks.” Guys would take one cigarette and make four little pinner cigarettes out of it. It was crazy to get one whole cigarette. I hadn’t had a cigarette for weeks in jail and then one day, all of a sudden a little rollie—that’s what we called them—comes under my door. I look out my little window and there’s the trustee who chucked it to me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a light. The guys in the cell next to me told me how to make fire MacGyver style. They told me to chew the wood of my pencil and pull out the lead, and then stomp on my plastic razor to get the two blades out. I was then instructed to put the blades in the electrical socket, wrap toilet paper around the pencil lead, and touch it to the blades. It lit up in my hand and I torched my miniciggie. I stood on my bunk, blowing smoke up the vent. I was loving it—until I realized that I could stay in jail for another year if I was caught. I threw that thing down the toilet fast.

I learned so much crazy stuff in jail. You can make a dagger out of newspaper if you roll it up tight enough and sharpen it against the floor. You can take the roller ball from the deodorant you’re given and if you rub it on the floor long enough you can make dice. You melt the black combs you’re allowed to mark them up. Once you’ve got dice, you can gamble.

When I was in jail, all I wanted was to get out. I sat and thought about why I was there and what I would do to make sure I never got there again. So many guys in there didn’t care though. They didn’t think they had anywhere else to go. They got fed every day, they had a place to sleep, and let me tell you, there were more drugs available in there for free than there are on the street.

The trustees came by offering heroin, pills, everything. There’s a hospital in jail, so every drug on earth was available. They’d ask me what I wanted but to me it always felt like I was being set up. One day, the chief warden pulled me into another room and told me that a couple of the trustees didn’t dig me and wanted to poison me. He just wanted to let me know.

After I was in there for a while, there was one day when I looked out of my little twelve-by-twelve-inch window and saw the guards carrying away some stiff, dead, blue-lipped motherfucker. You can’t really ask what happened when someone dies in jail because no one says anything—not the inmates, not the wardens, no one. It was like it never happened.

If that wasn’t insane enough, the whole time I was in jail, I signed more autographs than anywhere else I’ve ever been. I found out that there are a lot of fucking Mötley fans in jail, which is pretty scary. Each day, the wardens would take inmates from different wings of the jail out for a walk and as they’d pass my cell, slips of paper would fly under my door, asking me to write a note to guys’ girlfriends, brothers, or to whomever it meant something.

I’m not sure how many of you can relate to this, but the day that you know you’re getting released from jail is the best day of your life. You know you’re getting out, and you wait all fucking day to hear your name announced over the speakers: “T. Lee, roll it up,” which means roll your shit up and get out. You don’t know what time it’s going to happen, so you just wait. When your name is called, all your homies start shouting, “Yeah! Dude, rip it, good luck! Don’t come back!” As I was leaving, I looked back, knowing that all of them are going to be there for a long time. They’re still there, I’m sure, and that’s tragic.

I learned a lot in those four months and I’m glad that I wrote a lot of it down. I left with a whole folder full of notes. Those journals are filled with some crazy, crazy shit because I was spinning out like bald-ass tires on a rainy day. I came out of jail a different man because I met myself, someone who had been chasing a dream without looking in the mirror for far too long. In that way, and only in that way, it was an enlightening experience. I finally found out who the fuck I really am.

I didn’t answer all my questions about life, and I may never—does anybody? I did answer a few of the big ones (thank God). For what it’s worth, I read a lot and I’m going to list the books I read. They seemed like the answer to everything. They changed my life and if you’re out there, and you’re fucked, feeling lost, feeling like you need some guidance, feeling like you need to find your own truth, this is my gift to you. What works for one person might not work for everyone, but treat this like a smorgasbord of spiritual information. It’s a buffet—make a plate, taste it all, take as much as you like of each dish, and when you’re ready for seconds, create your own recipe. You will get it wrong at first, you’ll burn it, you’ll undercook it, but don’t stop, that’s life. Get back in the kitchen and prepare to ask yourself, “How hungry am I?”

There were many that moved me, but this is T. Lee’s twelve-pack, in no particular order:

Conversations with God meant the most to me. There are times in everyone’s life when a certain book or song will land at exactly the right time. This was mine. I was so moved by it that I wrote to the author at the address I found in the back of the book. He wrote back to me and sent me a signed copy of his new book. His words changed my life—I would even say that his words saved my life. Don’t worry, Oprah, I’m not going to start the Tommy Lee Book Club or anything, but if all you people out there have the time to read a book (which I guess you do because you’re reading this one), read a book that you find meaningful for one hour a day—it is a great gift that you can easily give yourself. Hell, if that book is mine, I’m flattered. Reading is like vitamins for your soul. A good book can change your life as much as a perfect piece of music or an amazing painting. It can take your world and show you parts of it you might be missing. And don’t you want to know as much about being a human as you can?

I don’t know, but it seems to me that people don’t do anything unless something is broken. Trust me, I’m one of them. When you are in a bad way, you start looking for answers. You go to a shrink, you get religious. You can call it soul-searching or whatever you want, but taking the time to ask yourself the big questions isn’t a part of the regularly scheduled program.

Those who have a child or a demanding job, or fuck, just trying to get the bills paid and get a nice comfortable life for themselves know how fast the days, weeks, and years go by. Finding time for yourself is a challenge, as dumb as that sounds. I learned the hard way that everyone needs to make time for themselves, even if it’s just a few minutes. Do it. More important, it’s the only way you’ll know who you are, how you feel, and discover what you really want out of life. If you don’t have those answers clear in your mind yet, don’t worry, there’s still time if you’re still breathing. Time is all we have here, so make the most of it. If you need a regular reminder, check this shit out: www.deathclock.com. Get in touch with yourself so that you can truly, honestly, openly love and share the real you with whomever you choose. If you don’t, that’s a lonely life, my friends. You’re walking through this world in a cell, just like I was, but it’s worse—it’s a cell you can’t even see.

When I got out of jail, my good friend Bob Procop picked me up in a Bentley. I fucking love those cars. There were paparazzi everywhere outside, so we ran and jumped in the ride, and I’ll never forget driving down the road looking around at the world for the first time in four months. It freaked me out: stoplights, traffic, people crossing streets. It seemed like everything was so crazy, going so fast, that it made my heart pound and filled me full of anxiety. Everything that was once familiar to me seemed alien. My man Bob had a fresh pack of Marlboro Lights in the car. I lit one up and hands down it was the best cigarette I’ve ever had.

We drove down Pacific Coast Highway after finally getting out of downtown L.A. and then I started looking at the beauty all around me. The scenery was way too much—the stars, the ocean, the sky, the trees. If you haven’t cruised PCH, let me tell you, it’s heaven: a winding road right on the ocean with cliffs and mountains to one side and God’s swimming pool on the other.

Bob was taking me to his beach house that he’d filled with bubble bath and a bunch of chicks. I love him. I hadn’t taken a bath all summer. We get there and it’s on. I’m sitting there with four amazing-looking women in the hot tub, stars above us and bubbles below. I remember turning my head away so no one could see me crying. Finally, I was out of that fucking shithole.

It was the first time I had been around any people at all and I didn’t know how to act. Somewhere in there I forgot how to talk to people. I had nothing to say to them; I really didn’t know how to be. Everyone congratulated me on getting out, it was great, but all I wanted to do was go home. Bob understood, so he took me home. Pamela had taken the kids and moved out. The place was empty.

I have another friend named Bob,* who held down my fort while I was away. He let me into my home and I stood there in awe. I walked through every room in the house as if I’d never seen it before. Only this time it was different. My family was gone, my kids’ toys weren’t all over the floor, the closets were empty, and so was I. We had called it the Love Palace. And now it felt like a drafty ruin.

I wanted to escape. I didn’t want to think about what I was feeling. All I wanted to do was sleep: sleep in my own bed. You don’t even know, and I hope you never do, now all I wanted was to rest and not be roused by the sound of jangling keys, slamming doors, and announcements barked over the fucking PA system. The two Bobs could see how bad I wanted to be alone, so they left. They (and I) were ready to celebrate my release, but I knew my sentence was far from done. I had to be downtown at the probation office the next morning. Fuck, yeah, I wanted a drink, a party, you know, the whole nine. But that wasn’t going to happen. My party was lying down in my own bed. I had slept way too long on a piece of shit one-inch-thick-trying-to-be-a-mattress cot that smelled like the lid on a rancid can of fuck.

I was all kinds of spun out after jail. Everyone called like crazy—my answering machine was smoking. I sat there and stared at the thing and didn’t know what to do. It felt good to hear people congratulating me and wishing me well, but as much as I wanted to I couldn’t call them back. I just wasn’t ready.

After a few days the Bobs had a group of people come by just to say hello and I totally hated it. I hadn’t decompressed yet. I just remember wanting everyone to go home and feeling like shit about it. I just wanted to be alone. I needed time to slowly resurface and I had no idea how long it was going to take. I thought, “Damn...I just want to sleep for weeks.”