Catholic New Times: From victim to anti-gambling addict

Ten years ago, my life was quite a different story. Today, it probably resembles a soap opera or B-rated horror flick, However, I have also found the strength and courage to become a different kind of chick. I've become an anti-gambling advocate. This is my story.

We had been married for 12 years when the first "hit" came. Three kids, a nice boat to cruise in the summer and a house in the north part of Toronto. My husband's father and grandmother had passed away in the early part of that year, and their passing was a great loss to my husband. But for the most part, our family was happy and healthy.

It wasn't until the late fall that l began to notice my husband's frequent absences. He became unreliable. He asked relatives to baby-sit, or left the daytime babysitter to fill in when he was mysteriously unavailable.

In retrospect, an affair would have been easier to deal with. But I soon learned that he had a gambling addiction. I became more and more angry with him and his absences. At the time, I had no idea how much money he was throwing away. But, I would find out just after Christmas of that year.

"It's the whole line of credit on the house", he told me when he finally came clean. Something in my stomach grew hard. I felt like throwing up, and every single nerve in my body began to choke and sputter.

Rock bottom? Not yet

I don't think I slept, ate or even swallowed normally for at least two weeks following this news. But I thought this was the "rock bottom" everyone talked about when they discussed addicts. My husband had hit the bottom, and this would surely be the catalyst he needed to steer him on a straight path.

Months and years later, I learned that there is no definable "rock bottom." In fact, rock bottoms reinvent themselves on a fairly regular basis. Some of my other "rock bottoms" included filing two missing persons' reports when my husband hadn't returned for days on end, borrowing money from my parents to pay Visa bills, cashing in my children's education Rinds to pay more bills, running a three-way conference call to intervene on a suicide attempt, and standing next to the fire alarm at Casino Rama, ready to pull the lever if security staff tried to escort me out for "bothering" my husband with legal self-exclusion papers.

Eventually, I did manage to get my husband to sign self-exclusion papers. However, the Casino had a policy of letting the gambler sign for only a two-year deal. Of course, the agreement was only as good as the gambler's willingness not to show up at the establishment. Most gamblers are not stopped from re-entering gambling premises, and some even apply to have their exclusion agreement annulled.

Two years later, with a different job, and still lots of debt, my husband returned to gambling.

Again, the absences were of concern to me, but now I knew money would be a real issue too. My arguments with him were quick and furious. I was afraid of losing the house, and I felt more and more stressed. Now, my kids were feeling it too--no Dad around when they needed to go to hockey practice or other weekend activities. Then, at Christmas, my husband went missing for about four days. He said he was off to work. I had my doubts, but I was stranded up north, with a malfunctioning cell phone, and no transportation. I just couldn't believe this could happen again.

Of course, I was furious, but relieved when my husband finally did show up again. "Everything's fine," he assured me.

What really happened

It wasn't until April that I found out what really had happened. During the course of four to seven short days, my husband had maneuvered a number of bank transactions totalling almost $200,000. These were funds he bounced back and forth on our line of credit, and a Visa card he had somehow obtained from the bank who now expected full repayment. There was the matter of the criminal charges tie hadn't told me about: fraud over $5,000.

By August, the bank was telling me I didn't owe them over $300,000 after all. However, they demanded approximately one-third of that amount. If I couldn't repay, the bank would quietly take possession of the house.

I'm still legally battling the bank about what rights they have, given their duplicity in my predicament. I still face the very real possibility of losing my home, and having to declare bankruptcy. I'm still married, despite mounting pressure from lawyers and "responsible gaming" experts who say my husband's soul and the well-being of my family isn't worth the financial hardships I've endured.

Becoming an advocate

I get tired of fighting the anti-gaming fight. But something always comes along to remind me that this whole mess came specifically to me for a reason. In fact, I can think of 340,000 reasons. That's the number of families in the Province of Ontario alone already suffering the effects of problem gambling. Some are waiting three months before they can get any addiction counselling.

So I have a choice--cry in my coffee every morning, or advocate on behalf of families and communities that are being ravaged by greedy "gaming" conglomerates and cash-strapped governments. I've made a deputation to city councillors asking them to vote against Off-Track Betting in my neighbourhood. I've contacted incumbents for the mayoralty race asking their position on waterfront casino development. I've demanded my workplace put an end to "casino runs" for charitable causes. I've written to my children's separate school and asked that lotteries not be included as one of the fund-raising initiatives. I've contacted representatives of various levels of government on issues as they arise, and I've talked or written to various media personalities about gambling issues. Currently, I'm trying to pull together a "Walk a Mile in my Shoes" campaign, inviting those affected by gambling to send an old pair of shoes to the Attorney General's office. Hopefully, at least 340 pairs of shoes will arrive at the AG's office, along with the stories of families who have been unnecessarily placed in jeopardy because of our government's present gaming policy.

It's been small-scale advocacy, but as Mother Teresa said, "I can only do small."

Erin Coyle writes from personal experience in southern Ontario

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