I still remember the first time I placed a bet. I was 23, living in Cleveland, working as an assistant manager at a retail store. It was a rainy Friday night and some coworkers convinced me to join them at a local casino. I wasn’t much of a gambler, but they made it sound harmless. "Just for fun," they said. I thought, why not? A small thrill, a little excitement — I deserved that after a week of overtime and rude customers.
At first, it was exactly that: harmless fun. I started with 20 USD, played a few low-stakes games, and actually left the casino with 50 USD in my pocket. That tiny win lit a fire inside me I didn't even know existed. I couldn't stop replaying that feeling in my mind: the flashing lights, the cheers, the sense that I was luckier, smarter, somehow better than the others around me. I told myself I had a "knack" for it.
I began going back, quietly, alone. At first once a month, then every week. It didn't feel dangerous — it felt alive. I told myself it was my new hobby. I’d set "limits" that I never kept. I’d lose 100 USD and rationalize it as the cost of entertainment. I'd win 200 USD and suddenly feel like I had unlocked some secret that the world didn't want me to know. I’d sit at the blackjack table or the slot machines for hours, sometimes until the sun rose, telling myself that the big win was just around the corner.
As months went by, my savings began to shrink. I justified it every step of the way: "It's just a rough patch," "I'm due for a win," "I'll make it all back next time." But the wins came less and less. The losses piled up. I started taking out cash advances on my credit card. Then payday loans. I stopped meeting friends for dinner because I didn't have money. I stopped calling my mom because I didn’t want her to ask how I was doing.
The guilt was like a heavy coat I couldn’t take off. Every decision I made seemed to dig me deeper. I'd sit in my car outside the casino for hours, arguing with myself, promising I’d only spend 20 USD this time, only stay an hour. But once inside, the world outside blurred. Time didn’t exist there. Only the possibility of winning back what I'd lost, only the fantasy of redemption.
By the time I turned 25, I was drowning. I was 27,000 USD in debt. My landlord evicted me after I missed three months of rent. I moved into my car for a while, parking in grocery store lots at night, telling myself it was just temporary. I stopped showing up to work because the shame of my situation was unbearable, and eventually, I was fired. Every day became a cycle of desperation — wake up, check my account balance (always low or negative), scrape together any cash I could find, and head to the casino with the same pathetic hope: "Today will be different."
But it never was. My losses grew faster than I could imagine. I pawned my laptop, my watch, even my childhood guitar. I burned bridges with the few friends who tried to help, lying to them about why I needed money. I missed my sister’s wedding because I was too embarrassed to show up looking the way I did, broke and broken.
The real bottom came one night when I bet my last 50 USD — the only money I had in the world — on a single spin of roulette. Red 23. It was my lucky number, I told myself. Of course, the ball landed on black. I sat there staring at the table, frozen, while the croupier swept away the last tangible thing I had.
I stumbled outside and wandered the parking lot until dawn, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life. The cold bit through my jacket, but I hardly noticed. My mind kept circling the same hopeless thought: I had gambled away my entire existence for a few seconds of false hope.
Eventually, I ended up at a shelter. One of the volunteers there told me about a program for gambling addicts. I didn’t want to go. I didn't want to admit what I had become. But when you have absolutely nothing left to lose, sometimes that's what it takes to finally ask for help.
It’s been two years since that night. I'm renting a small room now, working part-time at a warehouse. Every day is a struggle — to stay clean, to stay honest with myself, to rebuild even a fraction of the trust I lost. I don't go near casinos. I don't let myself believe in "luck" anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if that first win was the worst thing that ever happened to me. If I could go back and change one night, one choice, maybe I’d still have my old life. But all I can do now is face the wreckage I caused and try, one slow step at a time, to climb out.
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