Gambling Addict: I lost everything I loved

My life as a pokies addict: I lost everything I loved


Regardless of any political fix, the misery persists. One woman who seemed to have it all talks to David Sygall.

Even now, more than 10 years after the ordeal began, Kaye* can't quite get her head around it.

She may never know what drove her to put about $200,000 through those flashing, whirring machines. Why she threw away years of hard-earned wages and stole from people who trusted her, some who loved her. She can never get back the relationship with the man she thought she would marry. And she may never entirely escape the feelings of shame and regret for lying to loved ones and colleagues. For lying to herself.

It doesn't matter now. What matters is that Kaye is winning the battle. There is money in her bank account. She can walk past a pub without going in and emptying her wallet. She can buy groceries and come home with the change, get her hair done and pay her rent. She can hold down an honest relationship. Suicidal thoughts have lifted with her depression. What matters now is that Kaye is finally escaping the soul-destroying grip of poker machine addiction.


''It's still a bit weird,'' she says through moist eyes after recounting her extraordinary story. ''I have all this money. I keep thinking, 'Is this what normal people have?'

''I'm really starting from scratch. It's hard. But I know I'm smart and I know I can do it. It's important that I don't think too much about what I lost to gambling because looking back just makes me hate myself. I have to look forward now. I have to build a new life for myself.''

Kaye may be a common gambling addict, yet she is far from the stereotype. She is 36, well educated and well groomed. She grew

up in housing commission accommodation but says her family was happy and had everything it needed. She learnt the value of money and worked around school hours to buy things she wanted. She was sporty, popular and, like her four siblings, finished year 12. An older sister did a PhD, she says admiringly, and paid for it herself.

There were problems. Like many teenagers, Kaye struggled with an eating disorder, which became worse at 24 when her father died from a mystery lung disease. Her friends had left to study at university and Kaye became lonely. She started going to the pub and putting a few dollars in a poker machine.

''It was just an escape for a little while here and there,'' she says.

Down but motivated, Kaye moved to Sydney to work in hospitality. She found that her new colleagues were into pokies and one night she decided to join in the fun. It was the night that dictated the next decade of her life.

''After work we'd often go to the pub for a drink,'' she says. ''Some of the guys would go to the pokie room and I remember thinking, 'How can they put so much money in?' They'd put in $50, $100 … Then, one night, I decided I'd give it a go.''

A novice, unaware this pokie cost a dollar a spin, Kaye deposited $50 and within minutes the machine started chirping. She thought she'd won $80, but the person next to her said it was $8000. It was a great buzz. Within an alarmingly short time, it changed the way she interpreted playing pokies. The joy of the flutter was replaced by an irresistible compulsion.

''It wasn't about fun any more,'' she says. ''Straight away it carried a different meaning altogether. I wanted that feeling again. It just overtook me.''

The cost was serviceable at first. But soon Kaye was regularly losing her $800 weekly pay packet. The consuming nature of gambling addiction is evident in her recollections. She recalls very clearly the details of that initial big win, as well as several highly emotional incidents. But, mostly, her memories are jumbled. She shudders as she recalls the feeling of walking out of gaming rooms empty-handed time and again. It's the same when she explains how she lied repeatedly to her flatmate sister about why she was broke. She said twice that her wallet had been stolen - she'd thrown it away to avoid being caught out. As the debts grew, she would go to cash-advance shops, show a pay slip and be granted money at exorbitant interest. Everything could be fixed by another big win.

''My anxiety was growing,'' Kaye says. ''I started stealing other people's tip money … I wasn't brought up to do things like that. It just wasn't the real me. I was physically doing these things but it was the 'gambling me', not the 'real me'.''

Kaye's sister was catching on and took her to a Gamblers Anonymous meeting. But it was impossible for Kaye to relate to the old men there, who had lost literally everything. She was smart and young, working and socialising. She wasn't gambling every day.

One night, after a shift in a new job as assistant manager at a cafe, Kaye took a 10-minute taxi ride to Star City casino and put her pay packet through the pokies. It was 1am and she had to be back at work at 9am, but she was obsessed by the thought she had access to the safe at the cafe, which contained $8000. There were cameras around the safe, but it didn't stop her taking $1000.

Over the next four hours, Kaye returned to the safe five times and lost the lot. At no point did she consider the implications. She'd been entranced, fixated on hitting the jackpot. By 5am Kaye sat alone in the cafe, crying, feeling sick, wanting to die.

''I was on another planet,'' she says, shaking her head. ''It's hard to explain.''

Kaye's sister picked her up and took her to her boss's house to explain what had happened. She cried as she confessed. Perhaps misguidedly, the boss promised not to press charges or sack her as long as the money was repaid. Still with a credit rating, Kaye received a bank loan to pay the debt. But one month later, in almost identical circumstances, she did it again. Another $8000 stolen from the safe at work and ploughed through the poker machines at Star City. This time Kaye was fired and forced to sign a contract to repay the money.

''The worst thing was that everyone found out. To see my colleagues look at me that way … They hated me. They didn't see it as a problem I had, they just saw me as a thief. It was the worst feeling you could imagine.''

Kaye's life was starting to fall apart. She'd started a new relationship and appeared normal to others. Inside, she was a mess. She kept playing pokies to escape, even though it was the cause of her problems. ''They're made to do that. There's so much going on, the colours and noises … It takes over your senses.''

Kaye was slowly paying back her losses, including a $10,000 credit card debt and thousands to her sister. But gambling's grip was tight. At her next job she was paid under the table, leaving with hundreds in her pocket, confronted by gaming rooms on nearly every corner.

Her boyfriend, Mark*, knew nothing. But, after again losing a whole pay packet, Kaye decided to come clean. ''He was shocked,'' she says. ''But he wanted to help me. He was a very understanding and good man. But he was working overnight and I'd finish work in the afternoon and go straight to the pokies. I'd grab a white wine, light a cigarette and play. It was my escape time. I'd tell [Mark] I was having drinks with people, but I'd be gambling.''

It was now a swift descent. Kaye would go to the shop to get bread but end up gambling and come home with nothing. She would either lie to Mark or confess and they would fight.

Instead of working on her fraying relationship, Kaye found companionship among fellow addicts. ''There was always someone there you knew,'' she says. ''We'd lend each other money. People would get talkative when they won. I remember a psychologist woman who played all the time, a couple who had a successful business and always played together … Some people played two machines at once. They'd put cards into the button so they wouldn't have to keep pressing it. It just keeps ticking over. One guy would pray to the machine and when he'd win he'd say, 'See! It worked!' Others would say they'd worked out patterns and could tell when a win was coming. I knew it wasn't true. I knew that the machines are programmed so you lose. But I still kept playing.''

There were some good wins - $6000 one time - and Kaye would get cheques instead of cash for wins over $1000. But the losses were much greater. Mark covered the debts but it only prolonged the inevitable.

''I was gambling more, drinking more and was always in trouble with him,'' Kaye says. ''I ended up cheating on Mark and we broke up. I wish it never happened. He's a great man, one of the best people I'd met in my life. I thought I'd marry him.''

Kaye dragged her next partner into gambling. She now had three credit cards owing $30,000 and would consolidate one card with others that promised low-interest introductions. ''I got a fourth one online. They never called my work or checked my income. They just sent it to me in three days. Another $10,000, thanks very much.''

Things were mounting up. Kaye was paying her rent by credit and banks were calling in overdue repayments. With her toxic new relationship quickly over and debts now approaching $50,000, Kaye started to panic. She began cutting her wrists and considered suicide. Mark came over and ordered her to get help. She went to an addiction treatment centre but, as before, found it full of older, drug-addicted men. She contacted another, on the central coast, which offered her a long-term place.

''Again, it was for alcoholics and drug addicts, not gamblers,'' she says. ''It was a volatile place, really rough. People were in drug detox, there were full-on personalities, scary people. At the meetings … some of the addicts would target the vulnerable people. And then you had to go to Bible studies and church as part of the treatment. I just found it all ridiculous. If religion helps people, that's great. But it wasn't for me.''

Kaye lasted three months there, during which she was advised to file for bankruptcy. ''I didn't want to because I felt I should pay for my actions. But the woman told me 'everyone does it'. She said people would go there with 'shopping problems' - girls who'd maxed out credit cards buying clothes. When I put down the reason I was claiming bankruptcy, she said not to write gambling but 'overspending'. I don't know why.''

Kaye returned to her mother, who said she wanted her to stay in treatment. Kaye went to a new place where, again, they listed her as an alcoholic, not a gambler. Disillusioned, Kaye returned to Sydney. She thought returning to a normal routine might help. She found a specialised and free gambling addiction treatment centre at St Vincent's Hospital and started weekly sessions with a psychologist. She tried to rekindle her relationship with Mark, but there was too much damage. He cut off all contact with her in 2010.

Kaye relapsed last July, her first slip-up in about 12 months. The last time she put money into a machine, she says, was in October. Her counsellor warned it would be a slow process and slip-ups would occur. But it seems Kaye's battle is as much about dealing with regret as it is staying away from the pokies.

''My friends are all starting families and buying properties. And I'm just starting out. I lost a lot of time. I lost everything in my life - friendships, a great partner, I was distant from my family, I lost myself. I put people through so much. I never want to do that to anyone again. I think I was searching for something in my life, I was depressed and then had that big win. I started to crave that good feeling and lost my judgment searching for it. From there it was just a process of becoming addicted.''

As for a mandatory pre-commitment on the amount of money players can gamble, Kaye isn't sure that would have saved her. For now, her focus is on her own recovery, not the politicking around the issue. But if pre-commitment is a step towards controlling the problem, she says it can only be a good thing.

Kaye still deals with cash at work but isn't tempted to steal it. It's not ethical, she says. But she always knew that. ''I've got more tools to face this problem now. There's no turning back. I want to get married, have kids, maybe own a house. I just want to have a nice life. I want to live like normal people do.''

* Names have been changed.



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