Bulletproof: A Memoir

By Justin Peck

Justin Peck drove to the top of a mountain, put a pistol to his temple, and pulled the trigger. When the gun didn’t fire, he had to rethink the life he wanted to end.

In this incredible memoir, Justin Peck tells his own life story. The insane highs and lows were unpredictable and he found no fear of consequences. Constantly taking risks, seeking greater thrills, and finally attempting suicide, Justin was given a second chance by the misfire and has attempted to make the most of it – becoming a racecar champion, entrepreneur and inventor.

This inspiring memoir captures the roller coaster ride of a man who found a way to make himself BULLETPROOF.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998229829

Book preview

BULLETPROOF

a memoir by

Justin Peck

Copyright © 2016 by Justin Peck

Bulletproof Entertainment LLC

justinpeck.com

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permissions, contact [e-mail].

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2016

eBook ISBN 0-9982298-2-9

Cover and book design © 2016 by:

T Squared Studios and Justin Peck

Front/inside Hardcover photography © 2016 by Duston Todd

Front Softcover © 2016 by Duston Todd

Back cover/inside Hardcover photography © 2016 by Bink Designs

Back Softcover © 2016 by Duston Todd

Inside book photography © 2016 by:

Racing Photos: Bink Designs

Tattoo Pictures: Justin Grant

Actual Tattoo Work: Mike J

Special Thanks to Stacy Baker Masand for helping me structure the book into a flowable and readable story.

Table of Contents

GRATITUDE

INTRODUCTION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

GRATITUDE

I want to convey my love and admiration to my friends and family. To the close friends I’ve had throughout the years, please know that I do and always will respect you. Thank you for showing me kindness and compassion in times when I was impossible to be around, for sharing the lessons you’ve taught me and for giving me an opportunity to be a part of your lives.

To my mothers, Sue and Nancy, thank you for the unconditional love you’ve both shown me and for your patience in raising a crazy boy. From you, I learned how to treat and respect women, I learned how to be sensitive and compassionate to others and, most of all, I learned how to love unconditionally in a way that only a mother can teach.

To my dads, Dennis and Tom, I can’t express my gratitude enough for the lessons you’ve taught me. I know that without you and your guidance, I wouldn’t be the man I am today. From you, I learned that every action and consequence is a teaching tool. I learned that, in those times when I needed to be disciplined, there was always love attached to your actions, and even though I may not have understood it then, I know now that you loved me in a way only a father could. I wish I could talk to you now and get the fatherly advise I so desperately need at times, but I thank you both for teaching me the life lessons only a dad can teach. I love and sincerely miss you both with all my heart.

To my amazing children, I don’t know where to even begin. A daddy’s love can be so overwhelming, but in the end, it’s the best feeling I’ve ever known. Each one of you is so different and has so many incredible traits. I’m blessed beyond words to claim you as mine. You’ve brought such amazing joy to my life, and a love that is indescribable. In my darkest hours, you’re the ones who’ve always brought the light of happiness, and I owe my existence to you. I wake up every day with the knowledge that you’re my entire world and that the only reason I work as hard as I do is to provide the best life a daddy can. I’m so proud of you all. To watch what each of you has achieved in life and to witness you become the smart, compassionate, loving children I’d so hoped for is a parent’s dream. I can’t tell you enough how much I love you and how thankful I am to have you in my life. You’re the light of my world, the reason I open my eyes in the morning, and most of all, my everything. Daddy loves you!

INTRODUCTION

I used to be a God believer, but I’m not really now. How could I be? When I think about the world’s perception of right and wrong or god and devil or peace and war, and I think about what’s in my head, I’m not convinced a God would let me be.

I have evil thoughts. Occasionally, demons. Occasionally, voices. Occasionally, shadows that lurk and dance and make my skin crawl. Call them what you like, because I honestly don’t know what the hell they are. I’m going about my day and there it is — a seemingly calm, rational thought about pain or death or destruction. It doesn’t arise from anger. There’s no specific moment or event that makes me want to knock the shit out of someone. There’s no feeling that I’ve been wronged. I’m going about my day, happy, listening to music… how many times on how many radio stations has this song been played throughout history, or shopping for apples at the grocery store… how many other people have touched this apple, who are they, what else have they touched, what bacteria lurks on the skin, what will happen to my body if I eat it… doing what normal people do every day, when crazy shit enters my brain… you could pick up this knife right now and all you’d have to do is…. Wait! Where the hell did that come from? It’s not right. A rational person doesn’t have such an irrational mindset.

That’s the problem, though. I have bipolar disorder. I have insane highs that I’m addicted to, followed by extreme lows that I avoid at all costs. I ride that delicate tight wire attempting to balance the two states.

On one extreme, there’s an amazing adrenaline rush that comes with emotion… excitement or terror or happiness. For example, you know that feeling when you go home, it’s dark, no one’s there and something’s off? You don’t hear anything and you’re like, You’re okay, it’s all good. You go through the house and you flip on lights and you hear things… a click, a bump, a creak. What’s that? Your heart races, and that nervous feeling grinds in your gut. You know someone is there. So you start looking around and someone — whether it’s a friend or one of your kids hiding from you — jumps out and scares you… that, Holy shit, what just happened moment? That’s the rush I crave. It’s so instant and feels so fucking amazing.

Anxiety crescendos. My breath, my pulse, my nerves accelerate beneath the emotion, washing away the frenetic, staccato thoughts that preoccupy my mind. There’s clarity in this crescendo and I live for it.

I want that feeling so bad, sometimes I try to create it. I start playing out scenarios in my head and I start getting the rush, only then I actually start hearing sounds and voices, so it becomes self-sabotage. I get the rush, then my mind starts creating things that don’t exist. At least I don’t think they exist. I have to pull myself out of it.

Problem is, if I don’t get the rush, or get scared, that intense, anxious feeling builds like a pressure cooker and lingers for days, a week, two weeks, and ultimately wears me down. I don’t sleep because I start hearing shit, and I have this suspense of waiting for something that never comes, and I start to feel like I’m losing my mind. In those moments, I don’t know I’m doing it. On one hand, I can’t live without it, on the other hand, it scares the hell out of me.

With every yin, there’s a yang, and so it is with bipolar. The thrilling pinnacles come with equally destructive rock bottoms that last double the time as the highs. Those adrenaline-fueled mood swings come with emotions, both good and bad. Rage. Bliss. Happiness. Sadness. Inexplicable contradictions and feelings that erupt in torrents. Whether it’s the way I look at my children with a pride that seems to seep out of my pores or the way tears stream down my cheeks when my daughter hits a softball in a pick-up game on a random night, the emotions that take me to the edge of crazy swing like a pendulum from joy to rage. I don’t get it. What I do get: I don’t know how far that pendulum might swing.

Nothing in my life scares me except this pendulum.

My scars hide in the walls I’ve built and the relationships I’ve destroyed, and the ways I’ve learned to move around this world with secrets like these inside my head. Some of these secrets I’ll share with you in this book. Why?

Because I realized that in hiding all the darkness, I was also hiding my light.

I only realized this one fateful day when I pulled the trigger and the bullet that was supposed to end my life refused to fire. I won’t lie and tell you that in the moment the bullet stayed in the chamber, I dedicated my life to truth. You’ll probably read this book and think it’s filled with lies anyway, because how could anyone function with a mind that’s basically working to destroy itself? That’s why it took me ten years to write it. There may be contradictions. My memory wavers. My brain skips hard and bounces around. It’s why I have a difficult time holding conversations. While someone’s talking to me, I’m wondering why a tree in the distance has leaves of a certain color, or how the building I’m standing in was built, or who else in the world has walked across this same carpet, or how many possible combinations of a four-digit number exist. That’s in a thirty-second exchange. Focus is nearly impossible. When I sit down to write, the TV is on and the music is playing. If it’s completely quiet I can’t write because I start thinking.

Before you ask, yes, I’m medicated. And no, I’m not an anomaly amongst people with this disorder. While each person’s experience of mental illness is unique, and my experiences are my own, many people struggle on a daily basis. Even though bipolar isn’t an illness you can see, by way of visible symptoms, it’s very real and extremely tangible. It sounds crazy, but many people with my condition don’t even know they have it. I didn’t for many years.

But the fact is: The biggest curse in my life — this condition — is also the single biggest gift. Because of it, I have no fear of consequences. Can you imagine a life with no fear of consequences? You’d own your world. You’d strive for everything you want because you wouldn’t be afraid to fail.

It’s probably exactly why I’m a professional racecar driver. You might think it ironic that a man with a mental disorder would be at the top level of a motorsport where the mental game accounts for sixty percent of being fast. Racecar drivers live in tenths of seconds; the human eye doesn’t even blink in a tenth of a second — so a racecar driver can’t afford to lose focus for a moment. And I don’t. How?

I can be in a manic or depressive state, in the middle of the worst part of the disorder, but the second I slip my helmet over my face, the world stops. All the shit and chaos that makes my brain spin shuts off for the thirty minutes or the twelve hours I’m in a racecar. That’s what racing brings to me. It’s balance to my chaos. And it’s funny, because people think you put on a helmet and the chaos starts. But it’s the complete opposite for me. The helmet is the catalyst for the balance, and the racing is the drug that slows life down.

When my life isn’t slowed down, I’m on overdrive. During the three days a week I don’t race, I manage my pro racing team and run two successful businesses I’ve built from nothing. (I’ve also built businesses that have failed.) In my spare time, I’ve patented two technological innovations I developed simply because I saw a pain point that needed to be solved. And I barely finished high school.

The story you’re about to read is about a man who doesn’t really know what balance means. What if what I think is high isn’t, so I’m missing out on something? What if my low isn’t that deep, so I block out emotions to save myself from a terrifying abyss that lives only in my head? How do I steady this moving target?

What I do know is, one day my balance took a nosedive and I was saved by a bullet with a mind of its own.

There are defining moments in our lives that have a way of changing how we think, giving us some sense of purpose and pushing us harder than we’ve ever been pushed before. My name is Justin Peck and this is my purpose in life: to offer hope and a sense of purpose to lives that feel hopeless and purposeless.

CHAPTER 1

I dropped the tailgate of my truck and Puma, my sixty-pound pitbull, jumped down and tore across the mountain meadow at the top of Payson Canyon. Puma’s legs churned through the fall foliage, happy to be outside and free in the crisp fall morning. For all her exuberance, I felt nothing but a cold ache in my heart.

I woke that morning, as I had every day for over a month, feeling empty and dark and lost. I looked over at my wife, Stacy, who was fast asleep. She knew nothing of what had happened over the past few months, nor of the heartache I was feeling. Stacy had been so preoccupied with being a mother and tending to our children that I didn’t think she even noticed me anymore, let alone how withdrawn I’d become.

I was tired of feeling this way; tired of the strain of the emotional ups and downs I’d suffered nearly my entire life. This was the blackest phase I’d ever endured, and I’d reached a point where I was going to fix it once and for all.

I’d driven up to the canyon because it offered a view of the valley below where I’d spent most of my life. I took in the vista, blazing the memory into my mind and wondering if it even mattered in the end. Then I watched Puma race around, almost wishing I could tap into her energy and feel her joy. I could feel nothing but the bleak hopelessness of my situation.

I walked back to my truck, opened the door and sat in. The song Russian Roulette by 10 Years played as I sat in the sunshine, my door wide open. Normally, the heat of the sun on my face was enough to burn off the darkness in my mind. Not today. I reached for the notepad on the passenger seat, propped it on my knee and began to write my apologies for what I was about to do. I wrote to my children to let them know how proud I was of them and how much I loved them. I wrote to my mother and apologized for disappointing her. I wrote to my wife and apologized for not being the man she needed. Finally, I wrote a note of farewell to my true love. I could hardly finish it. I wish I were a better man. I started sobbing, not because of the decision I’d made, but because of the overwhelming sense of being trapped in an unbearable circumstance with no way out that I could perceive. A sense so overwhelming it had brought me to this point.

I glanced down and saw Puma looking up at me, her head cocked to one side and her soft, chocolate brown eyes taking me in. She knew something was up. I reached down and ruffled her ears, reminding her about some of the many times we’d gone out together on rides and walks. I talked to her like she understood every word coming out of my mouth and, though the words meant nothing, I felt her pick up on the emotion beneath them. I reminisced about all the races I’d taken her to and how I’d snuck her into hotel rooms just so she was comfortable. Many times, it was just Puma and I; she was my roadie for sure. It didn’t even cross my mind that I’d be killing her, too, by abandoning her in the canyon. I was so consumed by my own thoughts and intended action, I couldn’t think past that exact moment. All I knew was, this trip would be the last time we’d be together. The last morning I’d see this world. The last time my heart would be broken. The last of everything.

I turned back to the half-finished note I’d written to my love, my heart breaking and the tears flowing. I set the notepad down, reached into the truck’s console, grabbed my pistol and loaded it. You’re small and irrelevant. You’re not worth anything to anyone. Just end it. Give up. I put the pistol to my head and pulled the trigger.

When you lose your will to live, the hardest thing in the world becomes the easiest. I stop denying the voices in my head, stop fighting the inevitable. I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve to be here. My heart betrays me. My mind fucks me. My hand grips the pistol like it’s doing the world justice. I’m ending a life-long march to this very second, maybe my destiny, to trek through life with an ache to be gone. And with my index finger against the hot steel, I feel again. And it’s the most painfully beautiful sweep of relief. Thank you.

CHAPTER 2

Click. The click of the hammer hitting the bullet wasn’t the sound I expected. A loud bang. A sharp pain. Then peace. Simple. The pain would only last for a split second and then all the heartache would be replaced by something else. I didn’t know what that something else would’ve been, but I really didn’t care at the time.

It took a few moments before I realized that the huge explosion I anticipated didn’t happen. I lowered the gun and popped the bullet out. It flipped, glinting in the sunlight, and landed lightly on the ground near Puma. I didn’t stop to think about what had just happened. I automatically spun the cartridge, checked to see that there was another bullet in the chamber, and put the barrel of the gun back up to my head.

You’re a failure yet again. Then, anger turned to excitement and intrigue. The feelings of despair dissolved and I actually felt incredible for a few moments as adrenaline blasted though my body and gave me what I was looking for — some warped sense of mental acuity that put rational thought back into my head.

I became clear and focused. Wait a minute. You tried. You just tried. And it didn’t go off. You’ve got another one in the barrel and now all you have to do is the exact same thing that you just tried to do.

I kept the barrel of the gun against the side of my head and sobbed as Puma whined softly in the background. All she probably knew was that I was really distressed and there was nothing she could do. She leaned forward and sniffed at the bullet lying on the ground and then looked back up at me. Maybe she knew what I’d just tried to do. Maybe she realized that this was a bullshit way out. What she didn’t know was how afraid I was to face the emotions that would return soon. I wasn’t sure I could handle them. If I finished what I’d started, I wouldn’t have to — I wouldn’t have to face my own thoughts anymore.

I felt strange. My body tingled all over and my heart raced. I’d felt incredible for a brief moment and I didn’t want that feeling to stop. Adrenaline coursed through me and, at that moment, the realization of what I’d just done hit me. It hit me hard. You screwed this up, too. You either kill yourself or you don’t. There’s no such thing as trying. This should’ve been easy.

I laid my gun on the seat next to me, got out of the truck and picked up the bullet that should’ve ended my pain. I examined it closely and found a dent in the bottom where the firing pin had struck it. Why it didn’t go off, I have no idea.

I just tried to kill myself. How am I still breathing? I pulled the trigger. I pulled the damn trigger.

And then came an overwhelming feeling of peace. My higher power had bigger plans for me. What else could have happened, but a miracle? And who was I to question it?

My suicide attempt was a defining moment. Despite the profound realization of having survived, the confusing emotions that followed wreaked havoc inside me as I loaded Puma into the back of my truck and headed down the canyon. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next but, oddly, I felt better — calm, full of life, in control of my head — despite what I’d just attempted to do. It seems demented, even to me, but the adrenaline rush from that experience launched me out of the blackest pit I’d ever been in.

In this moment, I let my mind turn against me and control my actions. I become a quitter. I hate that feeling. I hate it more than the all-consuming pain of anguish and misery, more than the heartache and the debilitating pain of depression. It’s easy to explain physical pain, but emotional pain is another story. The shame. The embarrassment. I let those words be just that. Words. If I let them settle into my brain and body, and incarnate into shapes and shadows, I’ll slip again.

The dark phases of my affliction began in my childhood. My parents were always concerned about my rollercoaster-like emotions but, through it all, my dad kept saying to me, You have the potential to be great, to be more than most.

To a thirteen-year-old kid, it didn’t mean much, but today — the day I tried to end my life — those words rushed back to me full force and gave me what I really needed: a sense of purpose, a sense to push harder, a sense to do more. I thought about my own children and how much I loved them and the life with them I would’ve missed. I’d miss the chance to walk my daughters down the aisle and watch them become incredible mothers, I’d miss the chance to become a grandpa, I’d miss the opportunity to teach my grandkids how to drive, I’d miss graduations. I thought about not being there in the true dad moments when my kids needed advice and help with the progression of their own lives.

This was the beginning of a new journey that would lead me ultimately to who I am today.

There’s a reason why the gun didn’t fire and, riding on the words of my dad, I assured myself I was destined for something greater than who I’d become in this moment. I understood then I was the master of my own fate, and that if I was to fulfill that purpose, I had to fix my brain. I’d struggled so long with wild mood swings, I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d find myself in another situation like this.

I asked myself how many times I was going to attempt to kill myself. Next time it’s going to work. The thought of finding myself in another situation where I actually wanted to die repelled me. I have suicidal thoughts every day, but had never before followed through. I didn’t ever want to be so low again that suicide was a real option. It’s not often we get another chance to make the same mistakes — if we choose to. Or not. I could’ve easily loaded the gun again and finished my task and that’s when I realized my actions were my actions. The first time I pulled the trigger felt like I didn’t have a choice. But I did.

The depressive state would be back within days, if not hours. The urgency to figure this out quickly is as real as the dented bullet by my side. If the voices in my head aren’t punishing enough, my body aches with disappointment in myself. As my world slips out of control, suicidal thoughts ravage my brain and beg me for a break from life. I am turning against myself. My shame and embarrassment, though too painful to own, serve to remind me what my instincts know: I can’t count on my mind for long.

As soon as I got far enough out of the canyon to get cell phone service, I called my longtime friend and doctor, Stan, and told him I needed to see him right away.

He started to say he was too busy, but I asked again before he could finish. Please, Stan. Stan knew me long enough to realize when I was in trouble. Get down here. I was so relieved when he agreed to see me. If you don’t do something, you will end up in the mountains again.

This was the catalyst I suppose I needed to finally get help in dealing with the demons in my head. I’d reached the point where I was willing to do anything to manage my moods. I knew that if I didn’t do everything in my power to progress forward in life and change the way I was, I would find myself right back in the exact same circumstance. And next time, I wouldn’t get a pass.

When I walked into his office, Stan greeted me with a handshake and asked what was going on. I took a deep breath, not sure where to start. My mind flashed to various periods in my life when I felt the crazy mood swings take over.

My first manic phase appeared when I was thirteen. I was babysitting my little brothers while my parents were out for the evening when, out of the blue, I felt this incredible rush of energy and excitement over absolutely nothing. Even though it was the best feeling ever, I couldn’t control my emotions. A neighbor called my mother and told her I was acting crazy, so she called my grandpa and asked him to go over to the house to check on me. The whole situation agitated me because he thought I was on drugs, yet I felt perfectly fine. It was the first time in my young life that I truly felt bulletproof, like I couldn’t do any wrong, yet everyone else saw a young man losing his mind. The next day at school was tough because I could hardly control the chaos in my head. It took a few days before the mania went away and floored me into not wanting to be around anyone and wishing something bad would happen to me. I told my mother I felt sick, so I didn’t have to go to school, but little did I know I was truly sick. Mentally.

This wasn’t the first time I’d spoken to Stan about my problems but, at the