I’m 42 years old, and I never thought gambling would take over my life the way it did. Growing up, I played lotto tickets occasionally, but it was harmless, nothing more than a little game. I could walk away without a second thought. Gambling didn’t become a real problem until about 10 years ago, and even then it wasn’t because I suddenly developed a taste for it. It was because of a medication.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and put on a drug called Latuda. At the time, I didn’t know that one of its rare side effects was compulsive gambling. It’s right there in the warnings, but no one ever told me. Looking back, it feels like a switch flipped in my brain. All of a sudden, I couldn’t stop.
Poker and electronic machines became my games of choice. Omaha, Hold ’Em, slots and electronic pulltabs, which were a real curse for me. I could be up thousands of dollars, but by midnight it was gone. Friends and family would urge me to cash out, but I couldn’t.
The first time I realized I was addicted to gambling was in 2016. But I didn’t talk to a therapist about it until years later. By then, gambling had already destroyed so much of my life. It pushed me into doing things I never imagined myself capable of. I borrowed money I couldn’t repay, stole from people I loved and even stole credit card information from a friend on her deathbed.
My addiction led me to commit aggravated armed robbery. I was preparing to go to treatment at Project Turnabout, waiting for medical records to clear, and in the middle of that chaos I made a bad decision. I got caught and went to prison for 33 months. I asked the judge to send me to treatment instead, but he wouldn’t.
There are no real gambling programs in the prison system, and I struggled in there. Gambling is everywhere—sports bets, high-stakes spades games, etc.—with considerable money moving through canteen accounts. The system hides it from the outside world, but it’s real. I even talked with a chaplain about starting a GA group inside the prison. He told me, “If you can find a volunteer, we’ll do it.” But no one ever stepped up.
Since getting out, I’ve been working with a counselor through Club Recovery. I’ve had stretches of abstinence—four months clean at one point—but I’ve struggled too. I even put Gamban on my phone to block gambling apps, but then I bought a new phone so I could gamble again. That’s how strong the pull can be. But I’ve realized I can’t be a hypocrite. If I want to help others, I have to stay clean myself.
I’m starting a new Gamblers Anonymous group in Little Falls. Zoom meetings didn’t work for me—they didn’t feel personal enough. I wanted a place where people could sit down face-to-face, look each other in the eye and admit what’s really going on. There’s an epidemic of gambling up there. People buy pulltabs by the box, yet most don’t think of gambling as a real addiction.
That’s bullshit. I know firsthand how destructive it is.
Starting the GA group wasn’t easy. I had to call GA International, get a starter kit, work with the library to secure space, put flyers up in hospitals, bars, even in the local paper and radio. But it matters. These programs hold me accountable, and hopefully they’ll give others the same chance.
I’ve thought about suicide from time to time. But one day, a driver told me about his best friend who killed himself because of gambling. Hearing that cracked me open. I teared up in the car and knew it was time for me to step up—for myself, for others and for my family.
Thanks to gambling, I’ve lost a lot—money, relationships, trust. Some of those losses I’ll never get back. But I’m trying to move forward. I want to bring GA into prisons. I want to write a blog about addiction and suicide. I want to make sure others know they’re not alone, and that gambling addiction is every bit as real and dangerous as alcohol or drugs.
I can’t change the past, but I can use it. If sharing my story helps one person stop before they lose everything, then it’s worth it.