Jamie's Story: From the Poker Boom to Recovery

My name is Jamie. I'm married with a wonderful family. I'm a small business owner, a former college athlete, and an honor student. Basically, I probably look a lot like your friends and co-workers. I'm also a former problem gambler.

For many years I tried to quit on my own. I could stop for short stretches — even nine months at one point — but I'd eventually relapse and end up in worse shape, financially and emotionally, than before. I haven't gambled since July 15th, 2010. Here's my story.

It started as harmless fun

Growing up, I gambled almost every day. I was a golf rat — every weekday of my childhood was spent at the course with my buddies, playing skins for a quarter to 'keep things interesting.' It continued into high school and college. The stakes were never high, and winning or losing didn't affect my daily life. It was all just harmless fun.

I first saw problem gambling up close in college — not me, but a close friend who'd become addicted to slot machines. Every paycheck went to the casino. I bailed them out, again and again, setting up payment plans and envelope systems that never worked. Seeing what gambling did to my friend was devastating, and I swore I'd never go near a casino.

Poker felt different

The summer of 2003, a few friends invited me to play Texas Hold'Em. I didn't even know the hand ranks, but I jumped in. That autumn, our house full of athletes watched Chris Moneymaker win the World Series of Poker, and the poker boom took off. We started home games, then moved online.

Poker felt different from my friend's slot machines. The casino took a small rake, but by knowing the odds you could gain an edge on other players. Math was my strongest subject, so it felt like a natural fit — and I told myself I was aware of the pitfalls. For a while, it worked. I'd win a little, and when I lost, it was within my means.

The stakes increase — until it doesn't work

The $25 buy-ins stopped being appealing. I moved to $50 and $100 tables, then started playing several tables at once. In January 2005 I turned $100 into more than I could expect to earn in a month of work. I was hooked. Soon I was multi-tabling $100–400 buy-ins with a second monitor to play eight tables at once.

But I had a massive leak: tilt. In poker, tilt is an emotional state where you abandon proper play and make aggressive moves based on anger, not math. A week of careful, winning play could be wiped out in a fifteen-minute session on tilt. My losses grew, and I started funding them with credit cards — all while convinced the next time would be different.

When I got in over my head, I turned to family, selling them on the idea that I'd quit for good. In the moment I meant it. But I never took steps to treat the problem, so I'd fall back into the same pattern and beg for more money. Now I wasn't just hurting myself — I was hurting the people who cared about me most.

Nine months, then a relapse

Eventually I quit cold turkey, the way my grandma had quit smoking. For nine months, it worked. I felt proud and was investing in my business. Then an old friend invited me to a low-stakes home game — 'at most I might lose $100.' By the weekend I was back online, the stakes over my head, and I picked my misery up right where I'd left it.

Getting caught was the luckiest day of my life

Coming home from a business trip, I stopped at a casino to play poker. My phone accidentally dialed my fiancée, who'd thought I had quit — a few months before our wedding. I came clean on the drive home. She was shocked and hurt, but she told me I was sick and needed treatment. That was the luckiest day of my life.

I had zero interest in Gamblers Anonymous, but I didn't want to lose her, so I went. It was strange at first, and I kept looking for reasons not to return. I kept going anyway. After a few years I became deeply depressed — I was finally dealing with everything I'd created. I still face it from time to time, but I'm learning to address it.

Where I am today

I now have over seven years of clean time. I've grown so much as a person, my finances get better every day, and I no longer have the urge to ruin my life gambling. The biggest part of my recovery is reminding myself of the problems gambling created — remembering the pain without revisiting it. When I think about poker now, I can weigh the rush against the consequences, and abstaining is an easy decision.

Connection is the cure for addiction. My hope is that my story gives someone else a chance to connect — and to know recovery is possible.— Jamie