Recently, someone suggested that my writing has merely taken the place of my previous gambling addiction. Rather than recognizing it as a constructive outlet, there was an insinuation that my writing was consuming me in a harmful manner.
I began blogging shortly after I publicly acknowledged my addiction. At that point, my life was in chaos. I had just revealed to friends and family that I had concealed my struggle for several years. Not only had I kept it a secret, but I had also engaged in illegal activities to sustain it.
This was my rock bottom. It’s important to note that “rock bottom” differs for everyone. For me, it wasn’t a police officer at my door or having to explain my actions to my children. It was an overwhelming sense of shame that consumed me entirely. The weight of it was so immense that I found comfort only in darkness, which was where I felt safest.
As rumors about my addiction circulated among my friends, my shame morphed into a monstrous entity that I could no longer control. I withdrew deeply into myself, feeling terrified and desolate, unsure if I could ever face the world again without feeling revulsion for who I had become.
Almost immediately after my secret was revealed, I sought help from a counselor specializing in gambling addiction. During our sessions, we discussed the ups and downs of recovery—how essential it is to confront and own one’s pain rather than masking it, as I had done for so long. She cautioned me that my feelings of shame might intensify before they began to alleviate.
And intensify they did. My shame transformed from a feeling of disgrace into an all-encompassing identity. The emotional pain was unbearable; I had not allowed myself to experience genuine emotions in years, possibly ever. This time, I couldn’t escape through gambling.
One night, driven to despair by my remorse, I found myself alone in my dimly lit bedroom, tears streaming down my face, with a bottle of wine in one hand and a container of sleeping pills in the other. I saw myself solely as a despicable liar and thief. I began dismantling any good I had done until only darkness remained, a thick cloud of humiliation enveloping my better intentions.
A sip of wine, a pill, another sip, another pill.
In that moment, I wanted to die.
But fortune intervened; before I could take the pills, I fell asleep. Was it luck, or perhaps a deeper part of me that still wanted to live?
The following day, despite a monumental hangover, I knew I had to confront my demons. The motivation came from the unconditional love I saw in the faces of my two teenagers. Unlike me, they didn’t perceive a monster; they only saw their mother.
That afternoon, I made an appointment with my counselor. Now, I was not only grappling with the shame of my addiction but also with the burden of a failed suicide attempt—an act of selfishness no mother should consider. During our session, she encouraged me to write. “Write until the tears stop, and when they stop, write some more,” she advised. Her words resonated deeply with me.
Upon returning home, I began to write. I penned a heartfelt letter to my younger self, a four-year-old girl facing her own hell. I reassured her that everything would be okay, that none of the abuse she endured was her fault, and that she would eventually find strength.
Writing became a therapeutic outlet, a means of processing the addiction that almost claimed my life. I continued to write without hesitation or editing. Many women battling addiction have often encountered trauma, and for me, expressing my pain on the page has been empowering. It has allowed me to recognize that I am not alone—not just in my recovery from gambling, but also in the trauma I survived.
With each word I write, I find increasing comfort in my new identity. I will never revert to the person I was before my addiction, as change is inevitable. The adage “one day at a time” holds true in recovery. Through writing, I have cultivated a vibrant new world, one that keeps me engaged and away from gambling. It hasn’t replaced my addiction; rather, it has become a healthy choice. Different people find different avenues for healing—some may turn to exercise, painting, or volunteering. What matters is that we are proud of our progress in overcoming the demons of addiction.
Writing has empowered me to move beyond the shame that nearly overwhelmed me. Not only does it provide an escape from a troubled mind, but it also facilitates self-forgiveness. I can confidently say that writing has been as instrumental in my recovery as my counseling sessions. By channeling my energy into something I love, I have rediscovered my self-worth.
So, no, writing hasn’t replaced my addiction; it has been pivotal in my journey to sobriety. Writing may have even saved me.
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Summary:
This article discusses the author’s journey from addiction to recovery through writing. Initially struggling with overwhelming shame and despair, the author finds solace in writing as a therapeutic outlet. This process not only aids in confronting past trauma but also fosters self-forgiveness and personal growth. Writing emerges as a powerful tool in the author’s recovery journey, transforming into a healthy passion that replaces the destructive habits of addiction.