When I think of gambling addicts, the images in my mind are of decrepit old men with fistfuls of slips at the races or pensioners in dated gaming rooms at soulless, suburban pubs.
I never thought for a second that I could become one… a gambling addict… at the ripe old age of eighteen.
Only six years ago I turned eighteen. I was never much of a gambler, save for footy tipping competitions with small stakes, but once I was of age this changed. It wasn’t exclusively booze that was legally at my finger tips, the bright lights of the casino beckoned.
My addiction cultivated itself from a combination of drinking, partying long hours and using the casino as a final destination in the wee hours of the morning – the 24/7 liquor license ensured we always had somewhere to keep drinking.
I’m certain I have an addictive personality which combined with binge-drinking and party fatigue would culminate in a time out at a poker machine. The first time I lost a few dollars, but each time I would go back. Sometimes the casino, sometimes the gaming rooms at pubs, always the denominations increasing. The worst nights involved visiting the ATM more than once.
Poker machines are notoriously referred to as “one armed bandits”. Their returns are not great. There is no skill involved and you have to bet big to win big – they are there to take your money. I would mostly chase my losses until finally snapping out of the daze, realising what I had done and that all of my friends had long deserted me by the neon lights of the spinning imagery.