Slots soothe savage beast (my mother)

Wow. Wow whee. The money I gave to the casino last night.

If that’s not the biggest bender cash-wise in a single night, it’s damn close, in the top 3.

I don’t mean to sound flippant. On the contrary, rage, shame, cruel attacking are roiling inside. For my own protection, I’m dissociating myself — dissociation, an immense ability and skill developed at a VERY young age due to traumas.

I refuse to FEEL the aftermath of a destructive expensive binge because I fear what will happen if I do. My analytical thinking detached brain has stepped in to make sure that that decidedly final outcome doesn’t happen.

Of all addictions, suicides are the highest in number among gamblers.

The knives flying at me metaphorically are so connected to my mother. She is not the reason I gamble but she is a very significant cast member in learned self-destructiveness and how I respond to “things I do wrong.” All attack. Not a droplet of compassion or kindness or caring. My father was cruel but my mother was vicious.

So I’ve no role model for self-care when the chips are down. No maternal figure except one who is dangerous and DESTRUCTIVE. I gamble for many reasons but the aftermath is on many levels even worse than throwing money away.

Gambling is fun (usually), instant pleasure, immediate gratification, an escape from life itself. Gambling is an adrenalin rush and a dopamine deliverer.

The aftermath is acknowledging and experiencing, if you dare, the field of waste, the ruins, the damage inflicted to the self “willingly.” Actions have consequences and the consequences of a binge are very rarely good.

Time and time again I’ve observed the pattern:

Binge. Go on a bender. Destroy self and finances.

Stop. Vow not to go back.

Three days of rage, self-hatred, acrimony, shame, horrendous name-calling, self-torture and punishments. Internal punishments are KEY, nee imperative.  I don’t know why exactly,  I just know that attacks and punishments and constant profound criticism are what I got from my mother and to this day they permeate my being.

Day 4: Cravings return, strongly perhaps or weakly but nonetheless they return. Urges. Missing the excitement, the rush, the good feelings while the bad “fade” in amnesia self-induced.

Day 6 or 7: Ready to get back on the horse and do it all over again. And again. Again and again.

Self-defeating actions follow self-defeating beliefs and thoughts.

A gambler can recover but can never become a normal person / gambler.

First is to halt the action — the gambling (or the drinking or drug or whatever the addict’s poison of choice).

Then begins the REALLY hard part … the internal emotional work. Without that, “relapses” are so easy so very easy.

No addict is EVER in the clear or free of risks of relapses. Look at Philip Seymour Hoffman (actor). He had, what, some 22 years clean then began using. HE went apparently from 0 to 80 mph and like that sadly he was gone.

This is NOT unusual. There are no small potatoes for an addict. Everything’s big, gargantuan, humongous — the quantity of the substance — and yes, gambling IS indeed one even if not ingested through the mouth. Nothing in moderation.

That’s the insidious and trickiest truth of an addiction. “Little” no longer satisfies. Bets get bigger and bigger and bigger. Gamblers can go through entire life savings, kids’ college funds, everything of value they own to place another bet.

Is it sad? Yes it is looking in from the outside.

But I’m not exclusively on the outside. I’m in it. As last night attests.

What a gawd-awful bender.

Bender, binge, spree … these words aren’t strong enough! They don’t capture the enormity and intensity of the hypnotic state that gambling is.

I’m disgusted, embarrassed, enraged, woefully and brutally critical of doing to myself and my finances what my “real self” knows to be wrong, damaging, unrewarding, unfulfilling and downright destructive.

Healing from a pretty wretched and destructive mother is going to be fundamental in recovery. I see this now as I’ve seen it before. I just dread the work. I’d “rather” be playing the slots. At least that’s pain relief (in the moment).

It’s no wonder I’ve had addictions most of my life, ingest things toxic and self-destructive. That’s my mother I’ve ingested. She’s the worst thing that happened to me in my lifetime, excepting her part in giving me life.

I am 1,000% certain that had I had a different mother, I would not have become a compulsive / troubled gambler. Might’ve dallied about some in casinos but nothing of this scale of enormity, intensity and power.

I’m sad I gamble; I’m sadder I got the mother I had. It was not for the (higher) good that I can see. If there was higher good, then seeing that might eventually bring healing and inner peace. Meanwhile, I remain “motivated” or “driven” to gamble to ice the rage, anguish, and hatefulness that came from her to/toward me.

Ultimately, I hope to learn that gambling is my self-destructive poison that’s covering up the true, real and much greater destructive poison that is my mother.

Slots soothe the savage beast and in my case her initials are mjm.

Thanks for listening whoever and wherever ye be. Talking / writing sometimes really helps.

Crashing from the gambling high

A whiff of memory is all it takes or a passing gust of anticipation to invoke an appetite for gambling — in as little as 48 hours after a (destructive) bender.

Is there any other kind?

Amnesia is a marvelous phenomenon. It helps us forget temporarily horrible actions we inflict upon ourselves as gamblers.

It enables us to way way overspend, to forgo families, friends, sleep, nutrition, jobs, responsibilities, creative time, rest and more for another shot at playing.

Amnesia? Or denial? One in the same for gamblers.

Two days ago I went on a binge. What made this one destructive wasn’t the amount of my withdrawals, comparatively, rather the tidy sums in jackpots that I gave back to the casino: Because I wanted to keep playing rather than listen to the voice of reason that told me to leave while I was really ahead and think of all the good that money could do, like pay for imminent car repairs or rent.

Gambling is eviscerating to the self.

Then, the bloody sliced-up flesh sloooooowly starts sealing, scabbing and scarring itself with time.

Even the briefest passage of time is all it sometimes take for the demented gambler to return to the scene of the crime.

Earlier today I was tidying up my studio, doing laundry — task-y stuff that I really love.

Out of nowhere blasted this rush of desire to be at the slots anticipating … optimistic … the old crap from just 2 days ago behind me and “forgotten” … spinning wheels and betting big because the bigger the bet, the greater the rush.

That blast of desire didn’t include Big Winnings or dollar amounts, be they in wins or losses.

Rather, there was this rush of anticipation like a kid feels around Christmas. Completely outta nowhere, while doing housework!

A whiff of memory — of the casino environment, favorite slots, perpetual night, a womb of sensual pleasures, decadence and excitements … a gust of anticipation can be all it takes to compel me back to the casino … in as little as 48 hours after a bender that wrought self-punishment, loathing, hatred, frustrations, almighty unforgivenesses.

Any reasoning person would ask: Why do I do it?

There IS no reason to addiction and compulsion and relentless adherence to that which destroys. Addiction is immune to reason. That’s part of what gives addiction its unrelenting hold. Like the jaws of death, rather than Jaws of Life.

I felt that blast of desire to be at the slots, anticipation, optimism, “forgetting” the wreckage of merely 48 hours ago.

The power of denial … the power of self-induced amnesia … the power of compartmentalizing do me no good with gambling.

I didn’t act on that blast. This time. I noted it and continued with my tasks — which are inherently far more productive and positive than a 15-minute drive to a casino would be!

Dealing with urges is part of recovery. “Recovery.”

Does a gambler ever truly recover? I suspect not. One can’t remove the compulsion/addiction, only arrest it.

Shit. The price we — I — pay for being unable (or unwilling) to gamble within reason and temperance. “Recovery” truly is an All or Nothing endeavor.

Ticks me off that I pushed my passion for slots so far that I can only deprive myself entirely if I’m to live a “normal and healthy life” (ha! was never the case regardless of gambling!).

The early weaning away from slots / gambling is often the hardest part initially of “going clean.”

Anybody who thinks gambling’s not a drug is ignorant, uninformed, sadly and profoundly unaware, blind. For me, for gamblers, it’s as much a drug as cocaine snorted or meth shot into a vein.  Different effects, obviously, but as real a high — and crash.

Crawling through the crash is part of recovering sanity, restoring balance, ultimately honoring and respecting the self enough to NOT engage in destructive actions.

I’m nowhere near there. Baby steps precede adult steps. Feeling that sudden urge earlier and not acting on it is baby step sufficient for now.

Slots scantily in the rearview mirror

The first day or two after a gambling bender are always imbued with the same sentiments.

The more distance gained between the bender and now, the farther in the rearview mirror it becomes, the better.

The more distance gained between wretched self-loathing, beratings, punishments and hating of self, the better.

Coming off the high of a gambling binge, independent of losses and wins, is its own crash. Like coming off a drug.

The brain activities induced by gambling for gamblers have been studied and reported extensively. Brief excerpt from a piece in the Atlantic Daily :

“Neuroscientists have discovered characteristics that appear to be unique to the brains of addicts, particularly in the dopaminergic system, which includes reward pathways, and in the prefrontal cortex, which exerts executive control over impulses. “We’ve seen a disregulated reward system,” says Jon Grant, a professor in the department of psychiatry and behavioral neuroscience at the University of Chicago. “The frontal parts of the brain that tell us ‘Hey, stop!’ are less active, and parts that anticipate rewards tend to be stronger.” ”

Do I blame my passion for and death-defying struggles with gambling on my brain?

No, I do not.

However, I overlook and underestimate its role.

I overthink and overanalyze in general — a form of “mind over matter” (strongly inculated in childhood) — and thereby reduce my gambling to sheer stupidity … to NOT using my mind, solid reasoning powers and innate intelligence.

Set aside the self-hating judgments that I hold responsible for my destructive gambling and consider the biology, the stuff already firing in my brain even as I drive to a casino and I might make headway (no pun intended) into this addiction.

I did various mind-altering substances when younger but not a one gave me the high that gambling — exclusively slots — does. Not even close.

Gambling’s often called the “hidden addiction” among addictions. For good reason. There’s no liquor on the breath, no drug-induced weird behaviors, dilated pupils, weaving on the road, no glaringly obvious telltale sign.

There are no needles, pills or plastic baggies or bottles.

Gambling’s one of the easiest addictions to conceal, which only bolsters its insidiousness.

It also has the highest rate of suicide among addictions. Surprises me not at all and saddens me immensely. Because I truly KNOW down to my bones and breath what leads gamblers to that darkest place and keeps them there.

Putting the last binge, its recklessness, destructiveness and madnesses behind me is first and foremost in the first 24-48 hours.

Then the ice thins. “Amnesia” softens the horrors and hatreds. Urges resume. Desires, cravings irresistible and sheer missing of the slots, the excitement, thrills and casino environment return — gradually or more often with a snap of a finger.

Suddenly that hideous past that you so want to leave behind IS left behind too much so. All but erased from memory and the next gambling pleasure and opportunities beckon.

The gambler’s leap from aversion to desire can occur in as little as 24 hours or a week. The ability to “get back on the horse,” no matter how much he kicked you on the ground, fractured your skull and bloodied you up, is phenomenal.

Were that I could bottle that remarkable resilience and apply it to things beneficial rather than self-destructive and addictive!

I’m sure I could if I put my mind to it. However, getting there means lots of therapy around a very destructive mother. Dark, extraordinarily dark material, that. I don’t know that I can survive that nuclear bomb of a Pandora’s box.

Not the first time I’ve realized the intrinsic link between her destructiveness and my own with gambling.

Nothing more I care to write on the subject.

Once a gambler, always a gambler. Ditto alcoholics, drug addicts and so on. No gambler EVER returns to “normal sane” playing. When you’ve gambled in the major league, returning to the nickel bet is laughable. There’s NO thrill. Zero exhilaration. Waste of time. Why bother.

Even if you convinced yourself you could gamble like a normal person and play that 5 cents or 15 cents, you’d find the bets quickly escalating. You’d zoom from 0 to 60 mph in a heartbeat.

It’s the nature of this addiction.

You never become NORMAL.

You only become broke. And broken.

 

 

 

Jackpot! A gambler’s monstrous opiod

Gambling’s not about winning and losing.

It’s about playing.

Ask any troubled gambler and s/he will tell you this.

“I can’t hold on to winnings. They go right back into the machines … or to the dealer .. back to the house.”

Doesn’t matter how much you win, it’s never enough. It’s never enough to stop you from gambling.

Sure, you might walk out with a wad of cash. Feel great. Swear that’s it, you’re up and you’re never going back.

Maybe you won’t for a while. You might put those winnings toward needed or desired. You spend them like a “normal person.”

Eventually, however, often sooner than later, the casino’s siren song returns.

The lure, the memories and sensations of the good times, the fun, the excitement, the rush, the opiod that is gambling grab hold.

Perhaps first they tickle. Soon they become an itch that won’t be ignored or denied and you gotta scratch it. You get in the car and you’re on your way, as if in a trance yet alive, anticipation pumping through the veins. The opiod that is gambling.

I’ve had big winnings, jackpots, stacks of $100 bills counted into the palm of my hand. Most are smaller jackpots. I’ve never hit one above $10,000 but once came close.

That cold hard cash in the hand … in the pocket … in the purse … even purposefully secured in the wallet so’s not to spend it (ha!) is an amazing feeling! Especially after a run of losses, angst-ing over cold machines and daily withdrawal limits, cash advances and their added costs.

A NORMAL person would quit while ahead. Pocket the cash, perhaps celebrate over a nice dinner or such.

For a gambler, that cash is MORE REASON TO PLAY even when reason dictates, demands and encourages you to walk away — perhaps because now you’ve at least broken even … or marginally trimmed your losses.

Money in the pocket is reason to play.

I’ve cruelly, brutally, unforgivingly, harshly, sadistically, monstrously beaten, kicked, berated and eviscerated myself inside for every gambling behavior … from driving to the casino … to entering one … to using ATMs when I shouldn’t … going to the cashier windows for more cash, regardless of the costs … to spending every last dollar and cent in my wallet and car … to forgoing health and sleep needs to play through the night … to giving back my winnings AND THEN MORE OF MY OWN MONEY.

Yesterday I happened to win a couple jackpots that together put me comfortably ahead of my “investment.” OHHHHHH the good things I could do with the money. Like pay rent for a couple months. Cover expenses on an upcoming long road trip. Ease money pressures.

Yet “before I knew it,” the winnings were gone. Whittled away by this machine, that machine, favorite ones, unfamiliar ones, ones that hadn’t paid anything and thus were due to hit now, ones that had paid and might hit again.

In the Zone. I was in the gambling zone for many hours.

And EVEN THOUGH my reasoning thinking mind recognized the benefits of those nice winnings … EVEN THOUGH it told me “now’s the time to leave, just make yourself go, take the wins and walk out the door, you’ll feel so much better …”

I COULD NOT DO IT. Or would not. I didn’t WANT to. I wanted to play. To keep playing long as possible.

The gambling rush supercedes reason.

And I beat myself up something FIERCE for giving BACK money. I beat myself up more for that than I do losing because I think about and imagine ALL THE GOOD THINGS I coulda shoulda woulda done with the money.

The good things I threw away. IF ONLY I HAD LEFT. Taken just that one small action woulda changed so much.

The shame and self-hatred are profound, invincible. I deeply and fully hate myself more when I win and give it back than I do when I lose.

Wins, especially those significant, are double-edged swords for gamblers.

Because gambling’s not only about winning. Or losing.

It’s about playing. Staying in the game.

Playing as long as possible. Playing until you can play no more, whatever the reason. Maybe you have to go to work. Or have run out of money. Or gotta be somewhere.

Gamblers leave casinos reluctantly and only when forced, because they have to, not because they want to.

And I, as a longtime gambler, am guaranteed to spend my winnings, one day or another, one way or another. And I struggle with that because it’s Just So Fucking Stupid.

That’s me. A fucked-up stupid gambler. If I were put before a firing squad, I’d say “go ahead, pull the triggers, guys. I am a stupid worthless piece of shit who can’t stop won’t stop gambling — don’t WANT to stop no matter what sums are handed to me.”

If that’s not the height of stupidity … I don’t deserve to live, indeed I deserve the opposite because I CANNOT DO NOT DO NOT WANT TO walk away when I’m a winner. “Winner.”

No problem gambler’s ever truly a winner. We may win in a moment but in the course of things, we end up losing …. so much more than the money.

I can’t get it through my stubborn and intelligent mind that simplest truth: As a troubled problem gambler, no matter the money in the pocket:

You Lose. I Lose.

From Road Sign to Slots in Mere Seconds

I gambled again.

Yesterday, after four days of seeking to stop. Talk about a short-lived recovery.

The gambling, it wasn’t even planned or on the mind particularly. No urges — or fighting them — or need to escape reality that so often demands a trip to the casino, come hell or high water.

It’s that I simply drove past a casino.

Repeat: I. Simply. Drove. Past. A. Casino.

That’s all it took. That and feeling chipper after an afternoon playing fun Bunco and a little wine.

Was driving along the interstate in an unfamiliar part of the city. Didn’t even know there was a casino nearby. Then I saw the exit sign. Wild Horse. “Hey, isn’t that that casino?” The tall structure off to my right confirmed.

I took the exit. Casino right off the freeway — how convenient. Found a parking spot. Entered the casino. Just like that. So simple. So quickly. So easily. So deadly.

One small withdrawal and one large cash advance and I was good to go for a while. Won three small jackpots, boom boom boom. By small, I mean for high-roller bets but still happily received to keep me in the game.

Because as winnings that are returned to the slots remind me every time, I’m not there to WIN. I’m there to PLAY. To GAMBLE. To take the risk of a big one. Come hell or high water. Come wins come losses.

And hour or so later, all my money — mine and the house’s — was gone. Three $1 bills remained in my wallet. Well, that was SOMETHING.

Even those disappeared as I walked toward the exit. A machine catches my eye then boom, bye-bye anything left in the wallet. Playing lowly 25-cent bets, no less! Terribly unexciting. Especially after betting at the Big Slots in amounts I cannot bring myself to write.

Good wins, big losses. All because I DROVE PAST A CASINO. And had nothing better or else to do, aka the Boredom Factor that’s immensely fed my gambling.

I intended to write about self-esteem in relation to gambling (addictions generally) but will back-burner that as suddenly am not so inclined for that contemplative post.

For now, just want to say that stopping gambling is one of the hardest things in my lifetime. I try. I fail. I try. I fail. I try and try. And fail and fail.

I’m also stunned at how LITTLE it takes to poke that bear who escorts me into the casino, to the ATM, to the cashier, into the high-roller slots (much preferred over the general slots floor).

Even when I’m not upset or feeling an urge or compulsion to gamble. I can feel as cool as a cucumber, calm, rested, happy even and BOOM! Without contemplation or planning, I’m walking through those doors in the cool dark womb of bright lights and chiming bells and colorful screens in a sea across the floors.

Ohhh the sensualities of a casino, I do love those!

Back to square 1 of trying to stop. For the umpteenth time.

I wonder how many of us gamblers get so fucking damn sick of trying and failing that we quit trying at all, go hog wild, destroy our lives irrevocably and die, if not physically, then in all other ways across life’s categories.

Will I ever really stop doing something I really love that’s also terribly self-destructive?

Such a disappointment to my self am I. A failure. A loser, in the true sense of the gambling word. Fuck me, man, fuck me.

Gambling Compulsion: At Such Cost

Compulsion.

I know it. Every gambling addict knows it.

Merriam-Webster defines it as: an irresistible persistent impulse to perform an act (such as excessive hand washing)

I got up too close and too personal to compulsion yesterday.

In the aftermath in one of my most expensive gambling days, I see how much compulsion played a part.

It was fueled, yes, in great part by very unwinning — tight — slots. Unusually so, if I may say so, for that high-roller slots room in that casino. Before yesterday, I’d done reasonably well if not well. Of course doing well does NOT mean that I walked out with those winnings. Oh no. That’s a different topic.

It’s because I did badly, never found any traction with any machine, that my compulsion kicked in.

I began Chasing My Losses.

At any price. Whatever the cost. At such cost.

It cost me a lot. Most of the cash in my wallet. Two ATM large withdrawals — one an advance so tack on fees.

When those didn’t deliver, a DRIVE to the bank (in the commute no less) for a huge withdrawal. And when THAT still didn’t deliver, a cash advance on a credit card, the most ungodly act for concurrent interest rates and fees.

I was that … desperate and determined to have a good time and win.

I finally did. A small jackpot. Small consolation. It didn’t begin to break even on the cash poured into the slots. It went “buy-buy” quickly.

At the end of the day, I’d not only been unentertained — for part of what we’re buying by gambling IS entertainment — but I’d played way more of my own money over house money AND had lost it. In a short amount of time.

Compulsion.

Chasing losses. It’s partly what makes a gambler a problem gambler.

A casino’s like a drug den. Morphine smoke might as well fill it for its effect. It’s not that I lose all sense of reasoning. Quite the contrary. Many a time after a big win I’ve thought: “OK. You’ve won. You’re way ahead. This is cold cash in your hand. Go. Leave. GO NOW.”

And I don’t.

Ditto withdrawals. I’m aware, cognizant that I’m taking big dollars out of my account. Money that CAN and SHOULD be put to better use.

Yet I can’t stop myself. Or don’t want to.

Anything — that’s legal — to play more. To keep playing. And the bigger the bets, the better. Ramps up the excitement. The risk. The potential for wins. The potential for LOSSES — a fact that I conveniently shove to the side in my mind.

Compulsion: an irresistible persistent impulse to perform an act.

I know why I find gambling — specifically and only slots — irresistible. Yet even that awareness hasn’t stopped me from driving to a nearby casino and playing.

The length I’ll go to to play and to KEEP playing even as I’m losing losing losing and ONLY losing is astounding, scary, unreal.

How come I can’t put that passion and commitment and devotion to good application in other areas of my life that need positive attention?!?!

Yes, I Chased My Losses yesterday in a very big way and in a way that I hadn’t done — or had to do — given some “fruitful” gambling recently. (Note: fruits that I put back in but “at least it’s house money,” not of my account.)

I am reminded for the millionth time that I am a gambler and one compulsive.

I’m embarrassed, shamed, remorseful, disappointed, sad, loathing and/or hating of self for it. I expect better of myself because I’m smart, reasonable, reasoning, analytical, logical and CAPABLE of making far better and sensible decisions than pouring money into machines.

I’m also a terrific saboteur of self, vicious, unkind, brutal, cruel and unforgiving toward self … so that when I do gamble, the days of self-battering and bashings that follow are intense, unyielding, constant.  ‘Til they ease up in time enough that I can go back out again.

That’s not how I want to live my life. Not really. Not any more.

Being an addict is a burden. A hardship.

Sure, it’s fun for a while. Hell yeah! Playing slots is FUN. More fun than I’ve known in some 17 years. I take the losses because the highs are so much fun. Exciting. Drug-like.

After yesterday, I endeavor to contemplate compulsion … the very big part it plays in my gambling.

I don’t promise not to gamble ever again. Only to give credence where credence is due: to compulsion.

an irresistible persistent impulse to perform an act

And I endeavor to think more positively about my actions and self and make 2019 a Good Year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

24 hours after Biggest Bender — and breathing

After the Biggest Bender of my (gambling) lifetime, I want this one thing: Time to march ahead quickly.

Getting far, far away from the damage — is what I want.

I am: breathing. That is good enough for now.

Putting distance between me and that devastating night of overspending, financial recklessness and futile efforts at fun and some winnings.

It’s like a terrible car crash. Thinking about it brings anguish, pain, deep suffering and the glaring knowledge that I cannot undo ANY of it.

There’s no time machine that’ll take me back to that night where at any select moment I can choose differently.

Two beers at the bar then leave the casino rather than head to the cashier window.

One withdrawal rather than multiples.

Pull myself off a COLD machine rather than playplayplayplayplayplay and pourpourpourpourpour in big bills.

See the clear reality of it as COLD rather than through the clouded lens of warm favoritism and conviction that it’s gonna turn around any second — it must! it’s due! it will!– and pay off big.

I am delusional: when I’m in a casino.

Even if I’m calm, reasoning clearheaded when I enter, I’ll turn delusional in short order.

What differentiates me from a heroin user is methodology. A needle in a vein for him … a room vibrating with songs of bonus rounds and bells, bright colored lights, cigarette smoke.

Casinos are an ultimate seduction.

And an ultimate escape. An ultimate playground. An ultimate respite from life. An ultimate amnesia for a heart heavy or broken.

An ultimate dealbreaker and game-changer, depending on wins, losses and how deep the hole that we, the gambling addicts, dig for ourselves.

It can become so deep that we cannot get out. We know the horror stories. We live them.

The first 24 hours after a gambling binge (or Bender, in my case) is always of sharp mixed emotions.

The agony is still fresh on the tongue. The hatred of self. The shock, the cold hard slap of reality across the face of (a) what you did and (b) could not STOP from doing. The irrevocable actions.

Where IS that time machine when you truly want it?!

Mixed in with the agony fresh off a binge/bender is relief. That you didn’t gamble in that day.

Relief in surfacing from swirling watery madness back onto dry land of reason, rationality and reality.

I am my own shipwreck. Shipwrecked at the slots.

I am also my own savior.

 

 

 

 

Rampaging through slots & sums

I’m the biggest piece of sh*t alive.

On second thought, O.J. Simpson’s bigger. And any person who’s done bad things to children and animals.

So I’m the biggest POS who’s basically a good decent person.

Last night I went on a bender. The biggest and most expensive bender ever in years of gambling. I dare not write the figure even in my journal. I’m that disgusted with myself and sickened.

Thing is, there was no fire in my belly, no particular compulsion, emotion or state of mind that took me to the slots.

Only two light beers. Then I detachedly observed my THINKING process morph from sane and rational to gambling.

Even after deciding the night prior — a night of pricey losses — to quit and restart recovery.

My recovery in the past months resembles a revolving door! In out in out. Sometimes 1-3 days clean at a time. Once recently I went a week. Then I blew it — plus a LOT of money.

But last night … the worst ever. I kept playing one particularly favorite machine (“The Bees”) despite that it wasn’t paying off. It was cold, man.

Yet I kept hitting Max Bet over and over and over and over, waiting for the tide to turn, convinced that it would. It had to.

Bye-bye big bills. Then back to the cashier for another big withdrawal. Over and over, 5 times, ’til I could take out no more.

I was destroying my finances. Destroying my foundation. Ruining my security and my self.

And I DID NOT CARE. That’s one scary place to be.

“This is my last night. I’m ALL IN. The last big hurrah,” I told the friendly floor attendant.

I might as well’ve looped an iron block around my ankle and jumped into the sea — an old method favored by gangsters to “disappear” someone.

Why live only to destroy my self?

I felt sick, sick as a poisoned dog, when I left the casino around 1 a.m.

I’d NEVER gambled that much in my lifetime … AND I couldn’t stop. I recognized the damage I was inflicting; thankfully my mind wasn’t clouded by alcohol.

But I didn’t fucking care. And to pour all that money into the slots, particularly one THAT WASN’T EVEN PAYING OFF! …. a machine that any rational or reasoning person would’ve walked away from after several spins!

But ohhhhh, no, not I!!!

I was like the jilted lover, clenched, clinging to that lover ferociously, my attention relentless, unyielding, high-intensity focused.

That intense laser focus is my nature; it is gift and curse.

So yesterday I rampaged through the slots, figuratively. I destroyed my finances IN A VERY BIG WAY. A Very Real Way. A Most Intimate Way.

And while I recognized it at the time, I had NO intention of stopping. The rampage continued until some outer circumstance (i.e., withdrawal limit) put the brakes on. I couldn’t save myself from myself. It took an outside force. How pathetic is that?

I wouldn’t … couldn’t stop despite some rational awareness of JUST HOW MUCH DAMAGE I WAS DOING. No fucking way. I’d rather destroy myself — let myself be destroyed from within — than face the destroyer within.

I don’t have the “courage” to die over it.

However, every cell is REEKING of punishment. Hatred. Unforgiveness. Beatings bloodier than any mafia don could inflict.

I am that good, that desiring and that deserving of harm. Brutal self-inflicted harm. I deserve nothing but pain. I deserve only pain and punishment. Huge piece of sh*t that I am.

For gambling when I promised myself I wouldn’t — a mere 24 hours prior.

For destroying finances and foundation. For throwing away sooooo much money that could’ve — SHOULD’VE — gone to much better use than slots! Like rent!

I am a POS because in this dark dark place, no light can enter. Just the suffocating stench of pooh. That is me, the gambler, the person, the punisher of self and source of my destruction.

I don’t deserve life. That is all I’ve to say and is left to say for now.

 

Because boozing’s better than betting.

When the choices are stay home and get blotto’ed or go gamble — and boozing’s better — you’ve got a gambling problem.

I do. It’s big. Very big. And long in duration. Some 15 years, off and on, peppered with (GA) recovery approximately 3 years at a stretch.

But I’m not here to share my gambling story. Who has that kinda time?! Besides, it’s fodder for a book. Or chapbooks. Or speaking engagements at least.

No. I’m here at this old blog of mine that I’ve neglected along with so many other things — first and foremost my basic well-being!

I’m here this fine spring evening drinking on the front porch and writing so I DON’T go gamble.

So I don’t get into my car, switch on the ignition and drive the super-pleasant and short several miles to the casino.

10 minutes is all it takes.

That’s like an alcoholic living a stumble-y block down from some bar. Seedy or otherwise. Doesn’t matter to the alcoholic. Like an Indian casino (translation: shitty odds, way worse than Vegas!) that hardly pays doesn’t matter to a gambler.

Thing is, I know exactly why I so want to gamble right now. I could articulate the reasons in my journal. So clearly I’m not drunk — or drunk enough yet.

I’ve done that, btw. Poured my heart out into my pages after a gambling binge, the pain, anguish, self-hatred. I’ve poured illuminations and personal therapies into those pages, full-on realizations about WHY I gamble and HOW to stop.

Then 10 minutes later been in my car heading to the casino. As if none of that journaling happened!!!

Twisted. Fucking twisted.

Ohhhhh, I can smell it now. The smokey air hitting my nostrils soon as I enter through the dark smokey (no pun intended) doors. “I’m here. I’m home.”

Twisted. Fucking twisted.

I can see it now. Stepping up to the cashier window. Typing data into the pad. Easy cash since they’ve got my checking account. Signing. “How’d you like that? Big bills OK?” “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Practiced. Fucking practiced am I.

Then stepping ’round the corner to my favorite bank of machines. 1-2-3-4-5. Each different. Each I like a whole friggin’ lot. Each with decent payoffs when they pay off. Each money-suckers when they don’t.

Ya never know. That’s why it’s called gambling, dumbdumb! Risk. Win or lose. Win and lose.

Really. A casino — or two, in my case — an easy-breezy-lemon-peasy drive from home — is way. too. fucking. tempting. For someone like me. Emotionally devastated by the most intimate and biggest of recent losses (i.e., deaths).

I gamble NOT to feel. Sound familiar? It will if you’re a problem gambler.

The slots (I’m strictly slots) anesthesize better than any. fucking.drug. Better than this low-carb fruity beer at my side. Better than sleep. Better than Any. Escape. Route in life, possibly excepting madness/insanity or heroin.

Oh I can see it now. Slipping a $100 into the slot of whichever of my Fav 5 is available. Tapping Max Bet. You can’t win shit otherwise. Switching seats if one seems cold. Or staying put on the (mad) thought that it’s about to pay off big-time.

You gamblers know that one. “It’s about to pay off — huge! I FEEL it. I KNOW it.”

Tens or hundreds of dollars later ……………… you know that one. L-O-S-S.

Still. We do it. We meaning gamblers. Who have, would and do give their eye teeth for one more spin of a wheel. Even if it’s a measly minimum bet of 9 cents.

Been there done that.

But why does ALL that not matter when the urge to gamble strikes? Why does ALL THAT MISERY — **SELF-INFLICTED** I should add — go forgotten?! Shoved aside. Turned into amnesia.

Selective forgetting. Selective remembering. Ohmygod have I mastered that art! That madness. That self-destruction.

OK, at this moment, I still haven’t gotten into my car for the casino.

But then I’m not wasted either, a minor plus for impulse control.

Time for another drink. Because boozing’s better than betting.

Gambling is my love, do or die.

Breaking up is hard to do. Even when that which you love is destroying you.

My love affair with gambling — the slots, solely — is one of the most intense of my lifetime.

In one way, it is a simple passionate love affair. No human being on the other end to muck up matters. No human emotions of the other to have to deal with, fight off or survive. No complications of another human and his/her baggage.

It is simply me and the machines and the act of gambling itself.

It doesn’t get any better than that!

Being a loner and more powerfully inherently verrrrry different from most people to begin with are perfect fodder for the sport of gambling. Being with slot machines for hours is WAY WAY WAY easier than being around people for the same amount of time!

Long as there’s money, I can gamble for 5, 10, 15 hours at a time. When I was younger, I could gamble 24 hours straight “no problem-o.” Lack of sleep – pffffshaw! No food – big fucking deal.

Having to break for peeing — you can’t fight Mother Nature — that’d piss me off, no pun intended. Everything else in basic body needs didn’t matter, were quickly cast aside while I was submerged in the sea of slots.

I am still like that though at age 60, those all-nighters are harder to pull off and the recovery time, 3-4 days, is much harder than in my younger days.

Still. With slots and gambling, I jump in full on with both feet. If the water’s frigid, doesn’t matter. Still or stormy, doesn’t matter. Only thing that keeps me outta that sea of slots is not having money.

Were that I felt this boundless all-in passion for something else in my life! Or, even better, something POSITIVE in my life!

I don’t know what that would be at this age! With eras of “youthful indiscretions” and abundant wild ways behind me, at 60, I ask: What excites me now.

I’m tired. I’m old (or certainly no spring chicken at the very least!).

Gambling rocks my world — like past lovers but different, obviously. A love affair with machines, rather than individuals, is a whole other universe.  It is so much simpler. Until I run out of money.

I had a lover once. He was violent. I got hit. That wasn’t unfamiliar. Love and physical abuses went hand in hand since my childhood.

It was a very passionate relationship and NOT A HEALTHY ONE. I learned and grew my way out of it in time.

My love of gambling is a lot like that. Destructive, ultimately, but oh so pleasurable.

I can’t help wondering what role my relationship with my father (bless him), the underlying violence and destructiveness and such, have in my gambling. My attraction to it and ability to “withstand” its terrible destructiveness. I’m certain my childhood primed me for it. Not fated me unto gambling. Primed me.

Ultimately, it was my head and feet that led me through the casino doors. Free will.

Even though as any addict will tell you, there is no feeling of free. Our poison controls us, not the other way around! — when the addiction is active.

There’s a saying in gambling recovery groups when you’re clean — or trying to be. “My addiction’s in the parking lot doing push-ups.”

It is always there. Waiting to take you into the casino and take you down.

So true it is. So very true.

Stopping gambling is losing something I love. I have to be willing to process that, endure that, willfully remove myself from the act of gambling that is my passion for … something else, a life that doesn’t include it.

How willing am I? Not in head but in heart.

This is the question into day 2 — approaching 48 hours without gambling. Gambling is my love, through thick or thin, do or die, heaven or hell.

That is one ferocious bone that dog’s holding onto! Can I coax that bone from his mouth? This is the mission, should I really choose to accept it. Bidding goodbye to my love … not gambling is grief.