This piece was written by an individual who has access our gambling harms service. For the purpose of this piece, she has anonymised herself with the pseudonym ‘Emma’.

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The darkness palpitated through the small living room on the cold, icy morning. It was 3:45 a.m., and while most were asleep in their beds, the young woman sat hunched up on the sofa, eagerly watching her phone. Sitting in complete darkness, the only glimmer of light was that of her mobile phone screen that bounced off her face, distorting her features. Complete silence surrounded her except for the tune of her phone, barely noticeable.

Her smartwatch had notified her that her heart was beating above 100 beats per minute whilst at rest, but the woman wasn’t surprised by this one bit. She could feel it thumping away, almost as though it was going to burst through her chest cavity and land on the floor in front of her, pumping blood all over the wooden floor. Though it was winter and a cold morning, she was sweating. Her armpits felt sticky and clammy, her face was pink, and her usually friendly features screwed into a perpetual frown. Her long, dark hair was sticking to the back of her neck. She sat listening for every sound above, terrified she would be heard and eventually found. It was not unusual for her to be up this early; she never slept well anyway, but when the world would wake to join her, they would find her drinking her morning coffee, checking out her socials and watching the television, normally a news channel to see what was happening in the world, hoping to not be caught out.

This was her secret, just for her, her hobby, and she did not wish for anyone else to know about it. She hated secrets. A childhood sworn by secrets and lies had made her determined to never keep secrets from her tribe, but this was a murky secret – a secret that had developed over a short period of time, perhaps 5-6 months. Right now, she did not wish to share her secret with anyone else, nor allow anyone into this seedy path she was on.

As the reels spun, the screen would light up, the music, which she now knew every note to, would repeat repetitively as if a broken record was playing. As the reels began to slow, ready to settle, she would watch with bated breath, hoping for a good result. A match would be good, a bonus round would be even better. As the reels abruptly stopped, she would wait for the result to appear. A little loss here, a little win there, a sporadic bonus round on occasion. Again, the woman would spin the reels, repeating this activity until the pot of money that had been deposited sat empty. She would add more money, play again, lose again and repeat these movements – add money, play, lose, repeat.

Online gambling was her saddest and only secret, and she didn’t want anyone to know about it, not even her nearest and dearest. She thought she could keep quiet if she just won something back. No questions would be asked about her financial situation – after all, you win some, you lose some. It just happened to be that she was currently on a very substantial losing streak.

She had won a few times here and there, but nothing substantial, nothing to replace the money spent, her wages that she had rapidly gambled through in the space of a couple of days. The more she gambled, the more she lost, so she would gamble again, chasing the losses, trying to win. However, if she were totally honest with herself, it would not have mattered if she had won big anyway because she would just keep going, trying to win more, eventually losing it all. It was a bitter cycle, and she felt helpless to escape.

The woman knew, deep down in the basement of her gut, that the only winner would be the machine, but the excitement of a potential win was addictive. The adrenaline would course through her body like electricity, sending signals to her brain, insisting that it was a good idea and that it was fun and exciting. Truth be told, though, it wasn’t fun. She was not enjoying herself anymore. It was simply a drug to her, and she didn’t know how to stop.

As the sun began to rise and people were starting to get ready for the day, she would log off impatiently. Frustrated that she could not continue her attempts, but desperately aware that she could not risk being caught by her husband when he awoke and came downstairs. The woman was annoyed that she had to stop to carry out the mundane tasks that people had to do before she could have another bid at winning. She would drink her coffee, shower and get ready for work before heading out the door for the thirty-minute commute. The woman would numbly proceed through the working day, thoughts seeping into her brain matter, egging her to gamble. She would be ratty and intolerant. Displeased that life had disturbed her secret and was in the way of her carrying out her hobby. Even upon returning home, she would be short-tempered with her husband, and when asked what was wrong, “nothing” would be her response. He never believed her and would keep asking, but she never revealed the extent of her mood, always blaming tiredness or work stress. Her husband wished more than anything that she would openly tell him what was on her mind, but as usual, she would shut down and push him away. Her eyes would glaze over, and she would sigh as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. But no matter how hard he tried, she would lock down her mind with a passcode that he just could not guess.

The following morning would ripen, and the same routine would begin… go downstairs in the early hours, log online, play, lose, try again. Eventually, the money would run out, wages sliced and diced like vegetables into online pockets, her world in despair at the reality of what she had done yet again. The excitement and anticipation would end abruptly, and the tears would fall. Checking her bank account every few hours to see if there was a mistake, but a balance of zero would always stare back at her. What had started off as a simple curiosity had destroyed her inside and was well on the way to destroying her life.

The woman knew that the time had come when she would have to tell her husband and let him into her world. How else could she explain that her wages were gone within 48 hours of receiving them? She knew she had to be honest with him, but first, she knew that she would need to be honest with herself.

She was addicted, and she needed to be clear about that. She took a long, hard look in the mirror and stared back at her reflection. Dark circles hung around her sunken eyes; her eyes usually shone bright, a mixture of brown and green, like hazels and emeralds. Now they looked dull and frozen over. Her pale face, blemished with angry, broken capillaries where she hadn’t been taking care of herself, alongside persistent tears, seemed like it had aged the woman overnight. She drew breath, as if she was preparing for battle. She spoke softly, barely a whisper.

“My name is Emma, and I am addicted to gambling”, she said to herself.

Tears sprang to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She could taste the salty pain as the tears embraced her lips, almost like a kiss of survival, but she suspected it was more like a kiss of betrayal. This was a self-inflicted pain, but it did not stop it from hurting so unpleasantly. As her shoulders slumped, she looked away from her reflection, disgusted by the person who stared back at her. Looking down at the floor, her eyes barely open, she spoke once more.

“My name is Emma, and I am addicted to gambling”, she repeated, louder this time but still barely audible.

She took a gulp of air from the room that seemed to be trying to suffocate her. She stood up straighter, looked at herself in the mirror again, stared deep into the soul of her eyes and spoke, almost shouting, to the heavy air that surrounded her.

“Hi. My name is Emma, and I am addicted to gambling.”

She collapsed onto the floor in a heap. This was the first time she had ever admitted to herself that she had a problem with gambling and that it ran deeper than a hobby or a slight predicament. This was embedded deep within her brain, and she had no idea how to fix it permanently.

She realised this wasn’t a battle she was able to fight alone. Emma had tried previously, though had never really admitted to herself before that she had a problem. She had fought the demons hard in the past, told her family what had been happening, and they had all supported her. She had promised to stop. Completely abstain from any form of gambling. She thought she was in control, but it was just another mask she wore upon her face to deny the reality of the depths of despair she was in. How could she tell them it had happened again? To admit defeat and acknowledge that she had broken her promise, something she hated doing.

She went to work, glum and anxious. She knew she had to tell him, her husband, but she didn’t even know how to find the words. He deserved so much more than she was giving him. She knew that to be true. They had said their vows only three years previously, vowing to love and to cherish one another through everything. In sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, yet Emma felt that she was not holding up her end one bit. He was a magnificent man who deserved the whole world and more. A man who had supported her through every challenge she had faced. Loved her like she was the only other person on the earth. A man who worked like a dog to support her and their family, and he asked for very little in return. Just love, respect and honesty. Yes, she loved him more than anything else, and she respected him, but she wasn’t being honest with him, so she questioned how much respect she could have for him when she treated him so poorly and couldn’t bring herself to be honest with him, until this point.

Like the coward she felt she was, she waited until her lunch break, took a diazepam and sent him a text message. She knew she should have called him; he deserved that as the very minimum, but she couldn’t bear to hear the disappointment in his voice. She told him everything. It was over. With one simple message, her soul had ripped through the chains encasing her whole being.

As she sat on the grass outside work, her hands shaking, she sobbed. Tears fell like a monsoon that would not stop. They were silent tears, but if anyone had been watching her, they would have sensed how deep the pain ran through her veins. She cried for all that she once was, for all that she had done and for all the pain she was causing him. She cried for the secrets and the lies, the money spent, the addiction, and for not getting help before, thinking she was in control when clearly, she was lying to herself as much as lying to everybody else around her. She cried for the relief she felt for finally telling him the truth, but also for the fear of the unknown position she was now in. Would he leave her? Pack up and leave her behind?

As she waited for a response, she barely took a breath.