The Gamble

You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em

Know when to walk away and know when to run

You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table

There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealing’s done

—Kenny Rogers, “The Gambler” (1978)

Yesterday we walked through Gorski’s first six phases of relapse. Today we continue with phases seven through eleven—behavioural loss of control, recognition of loss of control, option reduction, return to use, and aftermath. This is where the drift becomes a fall.

I started to lose control of my recovery behaviours—the things that I had been doing well and made me well. I stopped going regularly to meetings. I’d tell myself I didn’t need them, or that I had more important things to do. When people tried to help, I’d push them away. I developed an “I don’t care” attitude that was really despair wearing a mask. I would become apathetic, or worse, nihilistic. Everything felt hopeless, and it seemed useless to try to do anything about it. But I didn’t want anyone to see it.

Somewhere in there, I’d start to feel sorry for myself and want others to feel sorry for me too. I’d start thinking about using, telling myself maybe this time would be different. Maybe I could manage it. The lying would get worse, not because I needed to lie but because I’d lost track of where the truth was. My self-confidence would collapse completely. I’d feel like a failure at recovery, at life, at everything.

My world started shrinking. Deep resentments would take hold—anger at the world, at everyone who seemed to have what I couldn’t. I’d cut off all support. No meetings, no sponsor, no counselling. The irony would become unbearable—I’d pushed everyone away and then couldn’t stand being alone. I’d feel like I was going insane, and the only choices left seemed to be using, suicide, or madness. That’s the corner addiction paints us into.

I started dancing on the precipice, pulling myself back just in time. The close calls were a rush, intoxicating, exhilarating. Playing the risk made me feel more alive than staying safe ever did.

And then the return. I’d convince myself I could use like a normal person, just this once, just for a little while. I’d choose to gamble. Sometimes I’d manage it briefly, which only made the illusion stronger. But it never lasted. The shame and guilt would hit, and I’d tell myself I was a bad person, that I’d failed again. Then the using would escalate, and the problems would multiply—relationships, work, health. I’d end up needing more help than I’d ever needed before.

In the rooms we often call acting out in different ways playing whack-a-mole. One negative behaviour gets under control, and another pops up. I don’t think that’s quite accurate. I compare it more to a wheel of fortune.

I’ve learned that when my life gets unmanageable and I don’t use the tools of the program, I spin the wheel. It doesn’t always land on drugs or alcohol. Sometimes it lands on gambling, overeating, extreme dieting or exercise, overspending, porn, sex, workaholism, rage, isolation. The wheel doesn’t care. It just spins until it finds somewhere to run. The insanity is to continue choosing to play the game.