''The Longneck Kid''

This piece of writing, shared with a generic image to protect the identity of our Sober in the Country Bush Tribe (peer group) member who wrote it, is genuinely one of the most profound and powerful pieces of writing from the perspective of a rural man who has overcome addiction.

- submitted anonymously, with permission.

I used to wake up on a Sunday morning and think, ‘Oh my god, what did I do last night?’ - and when I stopped drinking altogether… I had many thoughts that went along the lines of ‘Oh my god, what have I done?’

When I finally woke up to myself that I couldn’t drink anymore, there was a lot of damage that I had to face. A major organ ready for the bin, finances in shambles, career ruined and most tragically of all, relationships shattered to pieces.

It was the shame of my behaviour that kept me drinking for so long. It was hard to acknowledge that people knew me as my ‘behaviour.’

Regardless of who I might think I was within, for others, I was something quite terrible. But I had my little drinking tribe though to tell me it was all ok and I was a great bloke.

That’s what happens to us, isn’t it? We, problematic drinkers surround ourselves with other problematic drinkers to such a degree that it all starts to look pretty normal.

The relationship stuff was the hardest for me.

I have no answers for anyone else I know it to be true that ‘trust arrives on a tortoise and leaves on a horse,’ and after eight years of sobriety, I’m someone people can trust again.

I went to a doctor and got a mental health plan, I’ve seen a counsellor consistently over those eight years, and I’ve worked on my physical and mental health pretty relentlessly.

The people I care about have seen that and acknowledged it, and that feels pretty good.

Some of the behaviour I engaged in still haunts me. I have made all my apologies and said what I needed to say, but the people I wronged don’t owe me any forgiveness or absolution.

I think about the things I said, so hurtful and disgusting, and I feel just waves of shame rush through me. I often have a fear that someone will bring up some outrageous thing I did and tell my children or my employer. Where once all that fear and shame would have brought me back to the bottle - it now steels my determination to stay on the path I have chosen.

This song, “Sunday Morning Coming Down’’ sums up my old ways. Spending Sunday mornings lost and alone and having beers for breakfast to numb it all away. My friends of the time, the town, and the country were all backing me in on my ‘Sunday Session’ that would melt away the humiliation of the night before. Where once I saw this song as a type of validation of the way I was living, I now see it for the sad story it is.

It always made me think of the shearers who came through the farm as a kid. Dad said they were happy enough as long as they got a feed and had ‘enough for their beer and tobacco’.

They all look the same now in my mind's eye. Fingers and moustaches stained with nicotine, ruddy faces from half-living off grog.

I was the ‘longneck boy’. They used to give me 20c for every ‘’king brown’’ I delivered, providing I had the lid flipped off and put the empty in the appropriate place.

They were terrible heroes when I think about it now, and I’m thankful I haven’t followed their march into an early grave.

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To our mate who wrote this and permitted us to share, thank you. It is an astonishing, heart-achingly beautiful and tragically accurate piece of work.