The Cover all Bases Series #2: New Beginnings.

 

After years of procrastinating, months of saving, and dozens of sleepless nights, the time had finally come to leave Aberdeen to travel. It had been a long time coming and despite setbacks, I felt I was ready and I wanted it, so badly.

Despite their differences, my family had mustered a little gathering – Mum, Dad, both Grandmas and Granddad –  even though I had made it clear that I didn’t want a sending off at the airport  (my parents were going through a divorce and not on talking terms, and my grandmother from my mother’s side hadn’t spoken to my father in years.) I was a nervous wreck. This was an important moment in my life, but I hadn’t thought about just how significant it would be to them. They were proud and supportive, they would certainly miss me, and, of course, they wanted to say goodbye. The life that awaited me was within touching distance. My familiar life, for now, was set to disappear.

Scattered tactically around a restaurant table at the terminal, my family watched on as I sipped on a strong coffee, rifled frantically through my notes, and enjoyed the last Scottish breakfast I’d be eating for a while. I was very much being given room to breathe – something to which I had been missing for months prior. There followed careful conversation as my family remained focused on me and the impending trip. They tentatively judged and changed the pace depending on the ever-shifting vibe around the table in a concerted attempt to form a delicate environment for me to star in. But, in truth, I had said most of what I wanted to the weeks before, and was, surprisingly, doing a good enough job of keeping it together. I only wanted one person with me at the airport that day – my Grandad, a strong and wise and worldly man who gave countless pieces of good advice and was always generous with his words. When the time came to leave, he would know what to say, he would know how to act, and he would give me the added strength I needed.

The mood around the table changed as the time drew closer. I was suddenly bombarded with silly yet mandatory questioning: “Got your passport?” “Got everything you need?” “When does your flight get in?” “How are you getting to the hotel?” This unsettled me. I could feel my family becoming restless too as what little conversation there was descended into unsubstantiated ramblings.

I was flying to Heathrow and then onto a connecting flight to Beijing. I had been dreaming of this for a long time. I hated who I had become in Aberdeen – a gambler, a drunk, and the clichéd under-achiever. In the weeks before, I had my first real run in with online roulette, and had blown a chunk of my travel money. This put a huge downer on my preparation. Despite this, I still felt ready to leave – I had worked hard to escape; I was proud that I was finally broadening my horizons.

Soon my flight was called and it was time. As a family, we began to make the short walk to the gate. I walked ahead to buy some time as I couldn’t bear to look at my parents. This was going to hurt.

As expected, both my grandmothers were in tears, and, although there was no family protocol to saying goodbye, I turned to them first. They couldn’t be more different: a very Aberdonian grafter, with a love for whisky, bingo, and an incessant quest to cater for my vegetarian mother, despite not really knowing what a vegetarian is; a flamboyant, eccentric, animal-loving Jehovah from South Africa to whom there is never a dull moment in life. I loved them both equally.

I turned to my old man. I was dreading this. I harbour a lot of feelings on him (so much so, I’ve always struggle to say and even write the word ‘Dad’) and our relationship has been, and still is, strained. We are both scarily similar from the way we walk to the way we talk, to the jobs that we do. I see so much of myself in him, and he does in me. But we still find it incredibly hard to relate to one another. We moved in for an awkward hug. I would have welcomed us letting our guards down for just one moment but it wasn’t to be. Unfortunately, moments of true honesty, relaxed conversation and real bonding are few and far between. He loves me; I love him. Yet, something, nothing and everything prevents us from truly becoming close.

The relationship between my mother and I had also seen better days. The three of us had been living under the same roof since they announced they would be getting a divorce, but I couldn’t remember the last conversation that any of us had, together or otherwise. We had our own rooms, now ate at different times, and tip-toed around each-other. My mother said she thought she had driven me away. That wasn’t true. I had at least made sure she knew that. We shared a genuine moment at the gate as we said goodbye, and I was reminded how much my mother loves me. It was hard for her to let go. I gently edged myself out of her death grip hug and pulled away. I couldn’t tell her when I’d be back. I honestly didn’t know. She was devastated I was actually leaving.

Then, as I approached my grandfather, suddenly I began to crumble. I had remained strong throughout, but now it was all getting a bit too much. My eyes filled up, my lip began to tremble and I knew I was about to fall apart. But before I could, he interjected with some more wise words of wisdom which I had come to expect from him. I wanted his advice and I wanted to remember it. It felt right that he would be the last person to see me off.  We shook hands firmly and I was almost there. I worried that I would never see him in good health again: Parkinson’s had been slowing him down in recent months and he could well be a different man by the time I returned.

Head down, passport and boarding pass in hand, I took a deep breath and made a turn for the gate. My eyes had been pushing back tears in those last few minutes, but like faulty swimming goggles, I couldn’t keep them dry any longer. I began to sob, but out of site from my family, as I continued to make mercifully towards the desk. I looked back only once, to let out a forced smile. And then as I turned the corner, it was done.

I was gone.

It would be fifteen months until I would eat another Scottish breakfast.

Alcohol and Gambling: a pint before a punt?

The average person who doesn’t gamble, may think that you’d surely have to be blackout drunk to gamble excessively; or be riding high on whatever your recreational drug of choice is.

Gambling is generally painted in an alluring way in mainstream film and media – a heady world of casinos and sporting events; drugs; sex, money and alcohol; city lights and late nights; high rolling and hustling, wrapped up with all the vibrancy that life has to offer. This image of gambling is presented as an ultimate blowout for the ages, so I see the appeal.

But generally speaking, it’s really not how things are. And clearly, this wasn’t my experience – although it would probably make for a more interesting read…

For a dose of reality, you only needed to step into my local bookmakers at 2pm on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in Edinburgh – far from the blitz and glamour of the Vegas Strip. The only flashing lights to be found here, was from the Fixed Odd Betting Terminals; roadworks; and, on one occasion, the Police arresting a shoplifter across the street.

My relationship with gambling was mostly a sober affair. The reason I gambled compulsively is because I was addicted to gambling. Not because I was addicted to drugs or alcohol, nor under the influence of either, although I’m sure others have differing experiences.

Most of my gambling was done alone and behind closed doors. My addiction didn’t need any kind outside of influence to manifest. It didn’t really matter whether I gambled at home online, or at the bookies. Because the sad truth is, I felt just as alone and undisturbed in either.

Casinos wasn’t really my thing: the only times I ever found myself in them over the years, was to catch a night cap with friends after the bars and clubs had shut and even then, I wouldn’t gamble. As mentioned, I was a very private and secretive gambler. The idea of potentially having someone attempt to engage with me in public or watch what I was doing whilst gambling was off putting, so I’d usually just hang about the bar.

I was also too self-conscious and intimidated by the presence of other gamblers, especially those that I had deemed “better gamblers than me” so I’ve never sat at a Blackjack table or, surprisingly, a live Roulette Wheel – a game that would go on to really fuck me up and cost me thousands…

The first time I lost big, was £1000 in two spins on online roulette, whilst trying to chase my losses – something which I would go on to repeat a few more times before I managed to stop. This is a huge amount of money for me. I was at home on my own, and completely sober. In fact, I was sober for all of my big losses. But the thing they all had in common, was that they hurt massively. Like a literal gut punch. And the hurt doesn’t come instantly – it slowly consumes you as reality begins to bite. And when it does, you would do anything to turn back the clock – you just want to feel something close to normal again, after riding such a wave of emotions in the hours before. You become so far from yourself.

I find this type of compulsive gambling experience difficult to describe to people – it’s intense and hard to imagine. From euphoria to numbness, to feeling like you’ve blacked out and missed hours of time – it’s absolutely devastating to your mental health and you are completely out of control. You can’t just simply ‘stop’ at this point.

On that particular night, I experienced new feelings and emotions. I can only describe it as a visceral physical and mental breakdown, probably brought on by an adrenaline dump from hours of repetitive and addictive behaviour.

Once the dust had settled, and I was finished with frantically refreshing the page (to be 100% sure, that what had just happened had actually happened…) I began to tremble uncontrollably, as my mind ran circles. It felt like I was falling apart and it was incredibly raw. From there, I screamed; I punched furniture; I literally tried to pull my hair out at one point. I was completely unhinged. In pure desperation, the only thing I could think of doing was drinking to try and level the feeling out. I went to the fridge, opened a bottle of wine, and downed the whole bottle right there and then where I stood in the kitchen. I then jumped in the shower and literally tried to wash the feeling off. I stood there for as long as it took, as the water continuously bounced off my head. At some point, the wine kicked in and I jumped out of the shower and felt…normal?

I really didn’t know.

I sat back down in the living room wrapped up in my towel, and burst into tears. This was the first time that I’d felt so lost and out of control. I simply couldn’t handle it as I didn’t know how too. The alcohol begun to help take the edge off and took some of the pain away. It did exactly what I wanted it to do. From there, I continued drinking into the night.

This wouldn’t be the last time that I drank to numb the feeling of being addicted to gambling. I have sat in a few bars, staring into a pint glass not really knowing what to think or do anymore. But the one consistent with me, is that I didn’t need drugs or alcohol to gamble. In fact, on many occasions it was the opposite. I needed drugs or alcohol after gambling, to take my mind away from what I was feeling at the time. And when I think back on it now, I feel fortunate that one addictive habit didn’t fully manifest itself into three. Drinking was purely a plaster on a wound that was never going to heal, unless I got help with my gambling. Numbing myself in this way was not going to fix anything. It was simply a means of delaying and deflecting from the real issues, and I’m glad that I realised that when I did.

Although I completely appreciate that this would be a sensitive topic for some, I’d be interested to hear other people’s relationship with drugs and/or alcohol, especially in relation to gambling. What was your experience?

Gambling Debt and The ‘Fear’.

When I think back to the year or two before I finally managed to get on top of my gambling addiction, I’m astonished that I didn’t find myself in debt. During this period, I was auto-piloting my way through life and hanging on mentally by a very fine thread. I was doing a good job of hiding my struggles (just about holding it together but putting on a brave face) but I was definitely feeling the pressure, and going downhill fast. A lot of what happened then, feels like one long depressive come down, from a shit house party that my friends had left hours ago. Yet here I was: alone, mentally broken and overstaying my welcome, not really knowing what the fuck I was doing with my life.

From an early age, I always had a fear (I guess you could call it that?) of debt, which carried its way through to my adult life. This ‘fear’ mind-set likely saved my arse, later in my life.

I had an interesting and varied upbringing, coming from a family who (quite rightly) had me working for my pocket money for as long as I can remember – I was in my first part-time job at the age of twelve, grafting in the family bakery. I was brought up to respect the things we had, and I can’t knock my parents for this. I had a great childhood.

Although this probably isn’t true, to my knowledge I can’t remember anything being loaned to me, nor did I ever ask for anything from friends or family. I have also never used a credit card. I don’t like owing anyone any amount of money. It’s just never sat well with me nor was money ever that important. Growing up in the family business, I saw first-hand how bad my Dad was with managing his finances. He would say otherwise I’m sure, but its how I felt and continue to feel about it. And all it did was compound my ‘fear’. I grew up believing that I’d be bad with money too.

‘The less I had, the less I had to worry about.’ – This was my mind-set for a long time. I just didn’t want this burden or responsibility. I have never earned a lot of money and, in a way, I’ve always felt comfortable with it being this way.

I remember going to my local bank to open my first account when I was sixteen; I also remember not having a clue what the Bank Clerk was talking about. He asked if I wanted an overdraft: a type of loan from the bank if you’re a little short that month, I’d have to pay back with some interest. Foolishly, instead of walking out the bank that day with no planned overdraft (which is what I should have done) I left with a £10 overdraft as I thought this would discourage me from using it. What actually happened as a result, is that I would often have to pay the bank a ridiculous amount of money back for accidentally slipping into that £10. It was really stupid.

Fast forward ten years, here I was in a different bank, on a rainy midweek morning in Edinburgh. However this time, I should have had £23.500 in my account. I was down to £17.000. I had blown over £5000 on online Roulette and slots in 24 hours, and I had pending transactions and reverse withdrawals from several betting companies, that I had completely lost track of. These tallied up to another couple of grand give or take. I fucked up hugely and I was at my very lowest that morning.

My Grandad (who I miss dearly) had been keeping shares in my name, for the day that I needed to put a deposit down on a house. He was a wise, calm, cultured and measured man who I had nothing but respect for. We used to meet up for a “business” meeting about twice a year, which I absolutely hated. We would meet in a nice Café somewhere for a coffee, and he would always rock up with a smart, black briefcase that he pushed for me to take responsibility for. Don’t get me wrong, I love my Grandad but any conversation surrounding money always made me feel uncomfortable and I would tend to try and deflect away from it as much as possible.

Besides, the briefcase clashed massively with my scuffed Air-walk Trainers and my baggy skate jeans…

I liked that our relationship was pure. I would have loved my Grandad if he hadn’t have had a penny to his name. But I was put in a tough spot:

My Grandad had been suffering with Parkinson’s disease for many years, and he was starting to deteriorate massively. The sad truth is, that if I didn’t sort this out with him now, there was a real chance that the funds would never reach me. It had been dragging out a while, due to his ill health. And although my Grandad was keen for me to put pen to paper, there was various complications along the way as you could imagine. My financial future was in doubt, and my Grandad was dying. This was the reality of the situation. It was a horrible and difficult period.

I wasn’t ready for that kind of money as I knew I was a liability but what can I do? My family didn’t know the extent of my gambling, and I couldn’t spring this on my Grandad. Not now.

Eventually and thankfully, we got it all sorted, but it was a terrible time for me to come into some money. I ended up gambling some of this away, which resulted in a big wake up call.

Back in the bank, I felt like sixteen year old me: naive, worried and just not getting it. I asked the clerk to transfer the balance into my mums account. I couldn’t think what else to do that morning. But I needed to do this as soon as possible, as I feared that the rest of the money could well be gone by days end. I was so close to chasing my losses that day. So close. I had been planning on doing this, even on the way down there. I was really struggling.

The Clerk pulled up my account and swung the screen around for me to see. He asked if everything seemed accurate. It was a sober read. Betting sites for pages and pages: some I remember; some I have very little recollection of. Although I didn’t want to believe it, I had no choice but to own it.

I was utterly devastated and ashamed of my behaviour. The clerk had to figure out exactly how much money I had, as I had so many pending transactions. Just in case you’re interested: not once was I asked about my gambling or if I needed any help.

By days end, my account was empty, just like it had been in the months before. I transferred the balance to my Mum, but didn’t tell her why.

Later in the day, I told my wife (girlfriend at the time) what I had done. This wasn’t the first time I had blown a large amount of money. I gambled all of my savings a couple of times previously. She was supportive, but I had to work to build her trust again. This, I completely understood.

I always gambled what I had, until I had nothing left. And then payday would come and I would repeat the process. Somehow, I was able to manage and hide this incredibly well. The ‘fear’ I believe, kept me out of real financial trouble.

During my time volunteering for Gambling Therapy’s Live Online chat, I have heard some harrowing and extremely difficult stories of debt amounted through gambling. And although it’s silly to think this way, I’ve always felt an element of guilt that I couldn’t relate more – although obviously, I understand to an extent how it must feel to carry that burden around daily.

I have nothing but admiration for addicted gamblers (and friends and family directly affected) who have been able to be mentally strong enough to fight and gain control back of their debt: I cannot think of many things more difficult to go through, and you have my complete respect.

Debt is a worry I do not have. But, to be truthful, it continues to be a ‘fear’ of mine to this very day.