When I quit using alcohol and drugs, I thought that was the hard part. What I didn’t realize was that I had created a huge void in my life. I wasn’t getting those instant dopamine hits anymore, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. That’s when gambling quietly slipped in.
My gambling didn’t start in a casino or with sports betting like it does with a lot of people. It started, oddly enough, with clothes.
When I was in college, streetwear was big. There were online raffles for limited-edition clothing. You’d throw in $10 or $25 for a chance to win something worth a lot more. I started doing those raffles all the time. If I won, I’d try to resell the item. Before long, I was doing this every single day—including watching the raffle videos—while having basically no money. That should’ve been a red flag, but I didn’t see it that way at the time.
I did the clothing raffles for about two years and then stopped gambling for about a year. Then I started playing fantasy football with friends and things gradually progressed. I started doing future bets, like whether a team would win the championship or how it would do for the whole season. Then it became point spreads and over/unders for individual games. Then it became in-game live betting. That all felt “manageable,” at least compared to what came next.
My sports betting got worse. DraftKings wasn’t what it is today, so I used an illegal offshore site. It started small with $5 and $10 bets, but gradually turned into betting every day, multiple times a day. I was betting on games I didn’t even watch or know anything about, like baseball games in a league on the other side of the world. That made it harder to lie to myself that this was just for fun.
What really pushed me over the edge was online casino gambling. While watching sports, I started clicking into online casinos on my phone for fun. I quickly went through five-dollar slots and started chasing my losses. Then I’d lose $100 trying to get it back on roulette or blackjack. I started using money I didn’t have—dipping into credit cards and debit cards. I wasn’t paying rent and was barely eating. I had a decent job and still couldn’t afford to live.
I was living with my girlfriend at the time, as gambling slowly took over my life. I’d get home from work and watch games from 4 p.m. until midnight instead of spending time with her. She had no idea how bad it was. When she eventually broke up with me and moved out—taking the dog—I couldn’t afford the apartment on my own because of gambling.
I had only been to one or two GA meetings at that point, so I didn’t really have a GA program. I asked someone in AA if they knew anyone who had been to GA, and I got connected with someone who offered to take me to a meeting. He became my GA sponsor. I thought it would be just like AA—and at a high level it is—but it’s clearly different because I couldn’t manage my gambling addiction as well as I managed my alcohol addiction.
I was surprised how few young people were in the GA rooms. Given how much I know younger people are gambling, particularly on sports, I’d expected more people in their 20s and 30s. I found that many of the people went to live casinos and played a lot of scratch-offs, activities I think are less common in my age group.
As I look back on my gambling, I wasn’t really chasing wins; I was chasing a feeling. I don’t even remember having many big wins. No win ever felt that good and every loss felt awful. I just wanted to feel something, or avoid being present in my own life.
After I stopped gambling almost two years ago, I couldn’t watch sports for a long time. I’d always think, “I would’ve won that if I’d bet.” Eventually, I was able to watch again, but the ads are everywhere now. I honestly can’t imagine trying to quit for the first time today with all those reminders.
I just turned 30. I still get urges to gamble more than I ever get urges to drink. Gambling ads hit me in a way alcohol ads don’t. I also see how normalized betting has become, especially for younger people. My little brother is in college, and betting is just part of the culture—everyone seems to be doing it. I try to keep the door open so he knows he can talk to me if it ever becomes a problem.
Thankfully, life today is much more manageable. I know my brain is always going to look for something, so I try to channel that energy into healthier things—running, relationships, being present. I’m not perfect, but I’m honest now. And that makes all the difference.
If any of this sounds familiar, I promise you’re not alone—and that there is hope. Help is out there. Recovery doesn’t make life perfect, but it does make it livable—and for me, that’s more than enough.