Severely obese, depressed and an avid drug and alcohol addict, Australian author Luke Kennedy was trying to get his shit together and reset his life. After venturing to Thailand for one final hurrah, he partied hard, overdid it and his path collided with prostitutes, drug dealers and shocking violence. In this edited extract from his latest memoir, he gives us a glimpse into his life before it led to that fateful, and nearly fatal, Thai trip which ended in enlightenment after a Buddhist Monk forced him to confront his demons. The debaucherous trip became much more than just a good story but a fundamental mindset shift and stepping stone towards a silent mind.
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1350890097/1665795065/articles/8BLhWbQkF1666874872027/6661660728.jpg]
I don’t want to do this. What if they’ve got weapons, too? I might get locked up. I might get…
“Punchy, how much do you think they’ll have?” my old friend Stintz asked me, seated next to me in the driver’s seat of a stolen car, his words interrupting my inner thoughts. Punchy, my nickname, I had picked up through graffiti and winning organised street fights. I loved it. “I’m not sure, bro. Don’t know about cash, but they’ll have heaps of pills,” my mouth spat out, trying to drown the other conversation in my head: my doubt and my fears. My thoughts were always there, always loud. Those loud thoughts were the reason I was sitting in that car about to run through a drug dealer’s house to rob him and his friends.
A couple of hours earlier I had been sitting on a warm couch with a bunch of my boys, the morning sun peeping through gaps in the curtains. It was the end of the second night without any sleep but with copious amounts of ecstasy, cocaine and alcohol. Time on drugs gave me what I was after: a slight reprieve from my overactive mind. It gave me some stillness, some silent time. It helped me care less about what other people thought of me – at least, for a short time. As the effects started to wear off and the misery of my harsh reality began to hit, my loud berserk thoughts were back in full force. And they were worse than before I got on the drugs.
Shouldn’t have said that last night. You reckon they’ll care? F–k, I’m going to be sick tomorrow … Should I have something to eat? When did I eat last? Ummm … wonder if I’ve lost weight. I’m gunna go home. F–k going home. Everyone else is still going. How’s my face look? I bet it’s oily. I haven’t showered in a bit. Do the boys think I’m a grub? Have they showered? Wouldn’t mind brushing my teeth. How can we get more drugs? F–k, I need more drugs. Any vodka left? I think I finished it all off. I was facing reality as the drugs wore off, and these thoughts were crawling their way back in. I didn’t want the thoughts back. How can I hold these thoughts back a little longer?
“Anyone got pills? Have we finished the vodka?” I slurred, glancing around the room filled with pale, miserable faces, purple bags sitting under every single defeated eye. There was no response besides a couple of weak and beaten shakes of the head. The room had three lounges in a semi-circle, a large-screen TV playing music videos and a coffee table with empty beer bottles on top, a bong, empty satchels and a bloody tissue after two of the boys had a drunken wrestle a few hours earlier and butted heads. The jovial atmosphere of the night before had disappeared with the darkness of night. What was left was misery, the sun’s rays now illuminating our horrible existence. One of the boys was slouched down into the couch, his head below his shoulders and giving the impression he had no neck.
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1350890097/1665795065/articles/8BLhWbQkF1666874872027/6626661166.jpg]
“F–k… wouldn’t mind a pill,” was all he could mumble. One of the other boys who had been in the wrestle the night before chuckled and coughed, a bit of blood-stained tissue still stuck on his head. “Anyone got pills?” I repeated a little louder. “Think we’re done, brother,” Stintz said, disclosing the information we were all trying to hide from. I had met Stintz four years earlier when he was 15 and I was 17. He was an innocent little skater boy back then, a young boy with an underlying mental health issue. He too was searching for stillness. He also craved silence. With years of being in Sydney’s most infamous graffiti and street-fighting crew, Stintz’s defence, or more like attack, of the manic mind was to not only bury it in substance abuse but to also crush it down through adrenaline-filled, life on the edge experiences. Not skydiving or swimming with sharks, mind you; more like bursting into a business, jumping the counter, throwing an employee to the ground and robbing them. Or, like me, he also enjoyed a fight. He looked up to me. When I first met him he was a short kid with blond hair who was looking for guidance. Now four years later and still a touch shorter than me, he had broad shoulders, a thick neck with tattoos hugging it and many scars on his beaten face. He also had a team of younger people who looked up to him and did harsh acts at his request – the vicious cycle of gang life. You either fight your way to the top or you’re left at the bottom doing things for those above you. Once at the top it’s your turn to call the shots.
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1350890097/1665795065/articles/8BLhWbQkF1666874872027/8886226619.jpg]
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For eight years of his life, Luke Kennedy was an obese alcoholic and drug addicted thug. Leading a violent street fighting crew, he was stabbed on two separate occasions. On the outside, he looked strong and confident, but on the inside he was scared, depressed, anxious, paranoid and obsessed with what others thought about him. After losing 50kg, Luke turned his life around and is now one of Australia's most sought after motivational speakers, mental health advocate and mentor to troubled youth.
“Punchy, do you think I could beat him, he’s a big boy?” Stintz asked me a few months after I first met him. There was an older guy from a rival crew who had called Stintz out. People in our crew never backed down, even if it meant a possible defeat. “Brother, he might be big, but his heart is nowhere near yours.” “With you in my corner, Punchy, I’ll take on anyone.” “I’ll always be in your corner, my man.” I was the main fighter in the crew. As I had grown up around the boxing scene and in a family of fighters – my dad and brother were both professional boxers – I won all of my street fights bar one.
I started my downward spiral after getting kicked out of school at 15. When I met the now-infamous graffiti crew RM I fought my way into it. I saw the way my dad and brother were looked up to: fighters were like gladiators in our circle. They deserved respect. I wanted that respect. I just went about it the wrong way. Years of organised street fights, getting stabbed twice – once in the lung and the other time in the head – and an unrelenting approach to gaining recognition meant I soon saw myself at the top of the crew.
I was happy to be labelled a fighter and leader. Again, I saw this as being like an ancient gladiator and it gave me a false sense of power. It gave me an identity, one that helped me feign confidence. In front of the boys I was this big, strong leader. I could handle any situation and wouldn’t back down to anyone. I even looked happy. Internally, though, it couldn’t have been further from the truth. I was anxious, depressed and paranoid, and a lot of nights I would cry myself to sleep after praying to be a better man.
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1350890097/1665795065/articles/8BLhWbQkF1666874872027/6821206678.jpg]
In social situations away from the false confidence of gang life I was incredibly awkward. If I had to meet someone for the first time I would stutter, sweat and be inside my head trying to work out how to get away. The labels of fighter and leader I grasped with both hands because it helped me fake my way into feeling confident. All this fighting, all this crime, all this drama . . . there was a deep method to our franticness. I’m not sure if Stintz was aware I don’t suppose I was back then either – but each of these things we were up to was again the result of us searching to relax our thoughts a bit. At the time of us committing these devastating acts our thoughts were gone.
“You’ve got this, Punchy,” one of the boys barked at me from behind as I readied myself for a fight one Sunday afternoon. A park was the setting for our fight, the same park I used to kick the football around with my dad. Now years later I was hopefully going to stand above my knocked-out opponent. Bouncing from foot to foot as I warmed myself up, I looked over at the guy I was about to fight: he had a few boys in his corner and I had the same. My thoughts teasing… Whack! My first punch brought silence – to my mind, that is. Fighting was an active meditation: no thoughts; stillness of mind. It was pleasurable. I look at everything that most people are addicted to or enjoy and it soon becomes evident that the addiction or joy is caused by a lust of stillness, of silence. Take playing a sport, for example. You’re totally present. A golfer isn’t addicted to walking a course in shitty suit pants, nor do they enjoy hitting more bad shots than good. They’re in love with those microseconds of pure bliss as their eyes scan that ball floating through the air. The world could be ending outside that golf course but none of that matters to a still mind.
Stintz was really a good kid, but he was still a kid. Other people his ag...
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1350890097/1665795065/articles/8BLhWbQkF1666874872027/6661660728.jpg]
I don’t want to do this. What if they’ve got weapons, too? I might get locked up. I might get…
“Punchy, how much do you think they’ll have?” my old friend Stintz asked me, seated next to me in the driver’s seat of a stolen car, his words interrupting my inner thoughts. Punchy, my nickname, I had picked up through graffiti and winning organised street fights. I loved it. “I’m not sure, bro. Don’t know about cash, but they’ll have heaps of pills,” my mouth spat out, trying to drown the other conversation in my head: my doubt and my fears. My thoughts were always there, always loud. Those loud thoughts were the reason I was sitting in that car about to run through a drug dealer’s house to rob him and his friends.
A couple of hours earlier I had been sitting on a warm couch with a bunch of my boys, the morning sun peeping through gaps in the curtains. It was the end of the second night without any sleep but with copious amounts of ecstasy, cocaine and alcohol. Time on drugs gave me what I was after: a slight reprieve from my overactive mind. It gave me some stillness, some silent time. It helped me care less about what other people thought of me – at least, for a short time. As the effects started to wear off and the misery of my harsh reality began to hit, my loud berserk thoughts were back in full force. And they were worse than before I got on the drugs.
Shouldn’t have said that last night. You reckon they’ll care? F–k, I’m going to be sick tomorrow … Should I have something to eat? When did I eat last? Ummm … wonder if I’ve lost weight. I’m gunna go home. F–k going home. Everyone else is still going. How’s my face look? I bet it’s oily. I haven’t showered in a bit. Do the boys think I’m a grub? Have they showered? Wouldn’t mind brushing my teeth. How can we get more drugs? F–k, I need more drugs. Any vodka left? I think I finished it all off. I was facing reality as the drugs wore off, and these thoughts were crawling their way back in. I didn’t want the thoughts back. How can I hold these thoughts back a little longer?
“Anyone got pills? Have we finished the vodka?” I slurred, glancing around the room filled with pale, miserable faces, purple bags sitting under every single defeated eye. There was no response besides a couple of weak and beaten shakes of the head. The room had three lounges in a semi-circle, a large-screen TV playing music videos and a coffee table with empty beer bottles on top, a bong, empty satchels and a bloody tissue after two of the boys had a drunken wrestle a few hours earlier and butted heads. The jovial atmosphere of the night before had disappeared with the darkness of night. What was left was misery, the sun’s rays now illuminating our horrible existence. One of the boys was slouched down into the couch, his head below his shoulders and giving the impression he had no neck.
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1350890097/1665795065/articles/8BLhWbQkF1666874872027/6626661166.jpg]
“F–k… wouldn’t mind a pill,” was all he could mumble. One of the other boys who had been in the wrestle the night before chuckled and coughed, a bit of blood-stained tissue still stuck on his head. “Anyone got pills?” I repeated a little louder. “Think we’re done, brother,” Stintz said, disclosing the information we were all trying to hide from. I had met Stintz four years earlier when he was 15 and I was 17. He was an innocent little skater boy back then, a young boy with an underlying mental health issue. He too was searching for stillness. He also craved silence. With years of being in Sydney’s most infamous graffiti and street-fighting crew, Stintz’s defence, or more like attack, of the manic mind was to not only bury it in substance abuse but to also crush it down through adrenaline-filled, life on the edge experiences. Not skydiving or swimming with sharks, mind you; more like bursting into a business, jumping the counter, throwing an employee to the ground and robbing them. Or, like me, he also enjoyed a fight. He looked up to me. When I first met him he was a short kid with blond hair who was looking for guidance. Now four years later and still a touch shorter than me, he had broad shoulders, a thick neck with tattoos hugging it and many scars on his beaten face. He also had a team of younger people who looked up to him and did harsh acts at his request – the vicious cycle of gang life. You either fight your way to the top or you’re left at the bottom doing things for those above you. Once at the top it’s your turn to call the shots.
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1350890097/1665795065/articles/8BLhWbQkF1666874872027/8886226619.jpg]
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For eight years of his life, Luke Kennedy was an obese alcoholic and drug addicted thug. Leading a violent street fighting crew, he was stabbed on two separate occasions. On the outside, he looked strong and confident, but on the inside he was scared, depressed, anxious, paranoid and obsessed with what others thought about him. After losing 50kg, Luke turned his life around and is now one of Australia's most sought after motivational speakers, mental health advocate and mentor to troubled youth.
“Punchy, do you think I could beat him, he’s a big boy?” Stintz asked me a few months after I first met him. There was an older guy from a rival crew who had called Stintz out. People in our crew never backed down, even if it meant a possible defeat. “Brother, he might be big, but his heart is nowhere near yours.” “With you in my corner, Punchy, I’ll take on anyone.” “I’ll always be in your corner, my man.” I was the main fighter in the crew. As I had grown up around the boxing scene and in a family of fighters – my dad and brother were both professional boxers – I won all of my street fights bar one.
I started my downward spiral after getting kicked out of school at 15. When I met the now-infamous graffiti crew RM I fought my way into it. I saw the way my dad and brother were looked up to: fighters were like gladiators in our circle. They deserved respect. I wanted that respect. I just went about it the wrong way. Years of organised street fights, getting stabbed twice – once in the lung and the other time in the head – and an unrelenting approach to gaining recognition meant I soon saw myself at the top of the crew.
I was happy to be labelled a fighter and leader. Again, I saw this as being like an ancient gladiator and it gave me a false sense of power. It gave me an identity, one that helped me feign confidence. In front of the boys I was this big, strong leader. I could handle any situation and wouldn’t back down to anyone. I even looked happy. Internally, though, it couldn’t have been further from the truth. I was anxious, depressed and paranoid, and a lot of nights I would cry myself to sleep after praying to be a better man.
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1350890097/1665795065/articles/8BLhWbQkF1666874872027/6821206678.jpg]
In social situations away from the false confidence of gang life I was incredibly awkward. If I had to meet someone for the first time I would stutter, sweat and be inside my head trying to work out how to get away. The labels of fighter and leader I grasped with both hands because it helped me fake my way into feeling confident. All this fighting, all this crime, all this drama . . . there was a deep method to our franticness. I’m not sure if Stintz was aware I don’t suppose I was back then either – but each of these things we were up to was again the result of us searching to relax our thoughts a bit. At the time of us committing these devastating acts our thoughts were gone.
“You’ve got this, Punchy,” one of the boys barked at me from behind as I readied myself for a fight one Sunday afternoon. A park was the setting for our fight, the same park I used to kick the football around with my dad. Now years later I was hopefully going to stand above my knocked-out opponent. Bouncing from foot to foot as I warmed myself up, I looked over at the guy I was about to fight: he had a few boys in his corner and I had the same. My thoughts teasing… Whack! My first punch brought silence – to my mind, that is. Fighting was an active meditation: no thoughts; stillness of mind. It was pleasurable. I look at everything that most people are addicted to or enjoy and it soon becomes evident that the addiction or joy is caused by a lust of stillness, of silence. Take playing a sport, for example. You’re totally present. A golfer isn’t addicted to walking a course in shitty suit pants, nor do they enjoy hitting more bad shots than good. They’re in love with those microseconds of pure bliss as their eyes scan that ball floating through the air. The world could be ending outside that golf course but none of that matters to a still mind.
Stintz was really a good kid, but he was still a kid. Other people his ag...
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MAXIM Australia (Digital) - 1 Issue, November 2022