I was seven the first time I gambled. We were visiting my grandmother, and the older ladies in her building taught me how to play rummy—for nickels. We played for six hours, and by the end of the night, I’d taken all their money. I remember asking my parents the next day when I could gamble with them again.
There was a lot happening at home around that time. My sister’s teenage pregnancy caused constant tension and uncertainty. Playing cards with my grandmother gave me a break from the chaos.
When I turned 18, I went to the local casino with friends and my dad. I blew through my paycheck in minutes. My dad handed me $50 for my birthday so I could keep playing. I ended up winning some money back. That was cool.
Later, after dropping out of college because I felt homesick and unsure of what I wanted, I became a blackjack dealer. I discovered a benefit for employees—you could cash your paycheck for free at the casino. On payday, I’d often stick around until I either lost everything or doubled my money.
Poker was growing in popularity then, and I got good at it. I played tournaments around the Midwest and would often stay and play more poker or blackjack afterward.
Not long after, I began experiencing serious depression. Doctors gave me different diagnoses, and I was eventually labeled bipolar. I went through intensive rehab for depression.
I got married and moved to Minneapolis, but we didn’t stay long. We returned to rural life, and I got another job at a casino. About a year into the marriage, my husband relapsed after drug treatment. I flushed his drugs down the toilet, and he tried to choke me. A coworker helped me pack up and leave.
I kept working at the casino, but my mental health didn’t improve. Looking back, I can see how gambling highs lifted me way up, and losses sank me just as hard. I attempted suicide multiple times.
After years in and out of treatment, I finally stopped going to casinos. I met my current husband and went several years without the compulsion to gamble. I could even go to a casino with friends or my husband and be responsible.
A year into our marriage, I had my first daughter. I struggled with postpartum depression and soon realized that being a stay-at-home mom wasn’t for me—I needed more social interaction. I started going to the casino in the evenings, just to get out of the house.
Eventually, I took a job as a program coordinator for a home health company. I was working 60 to 70 hours a week, often leaving before my daughter woke up and coming home after she was asleep.
A year later, I got pregnant again. My son was born with a heart condition and passed away a week after birth. That sent me into a tailspin. I didn’t want to go back to work. I went on extended medical leave and returned to therapy.
After my sessions, I’d often go to the casino. That’s when my husband first voiced concern. He asked me to talk to my therapist about it—but I didn’t.
I got another job and became pregnant again. Despite everything, I still found reasons to go to the casino. I opened a separate bank account so my husband couldn’t see how much I was spending—or losing. He started to worry about our finances.
About three years ago, I lied to my husband so I could spend the day gambling. I stayed at the casino for 14 hours, lost everything in our accounts and maxed out all of our credit cards, including the ones he didn’t know about. That night, I realized this was more than depression. I remembered hearing the term “compulsive gambling” when I worked at casinos but had never imagined it applied to me. I even called the 800 number posted on the casino door—but hung up when someone finally answered.
A few weeks later, my husband found a W-2G form showing gambling winnings I hadn’t told him about. He started asking more questions about our finances. I still didn’t tell him I had drained our 401(k) or spent $29,000 worth of insurance checks we got for roof repairs as gambling money. I thought I could double it. I didn’t.
I kept losing. Then one night, before heading out, I wrote my husband a letter telling him everything. I left it on the counter with our credit cards and checking info. I told him I’d understand if he didn’t want to try anymore.
He read the letter after putting our kids to bed. He called me and told me to come home so we could talk. It was the longest night of my life. I felt like the worst person in the world.
That Sunday, I went to my first GA meeting. We researched treatment options and found the Vanguard Center for Gambling Recovery 30 miles away. I called them the next day and signed up.
I completed a 30-day inpatient program. It was the hardest and best thing I’ve ever done—especially being away from my kids with only limited contact.
Since then, I haven’t gambled. I attend two to three GA meetings a week and stay connected with others in recovery. I even went to the first international GA conference since COVID. I’ve found peace among people who understand what I’ve been through.
Now, life is boring—and that’s a good thing. Boring means peace, stability, and being present for my family.