When I think of gambling addicts, the images in my mind are of decrepit old men with fistfuls of slips at the races or pensioners in dated gaming rooms at soulless, suburban pubs.
I never thought for a second that I could become one… a gambling addict… at the ripe old age of eighteen.
Only six years ago I turned eighteen. I was never much of a gambler, save for footy tipping competitions with small stakes, but once I was of age this changed. It wasn’t exclusively booze that was legally at my finger tips, the bright lights of the casino beckoned.
My addiction cultivated itself from a combination of drinking, partying long hours and using the casino as a final destination in the wee hours of the morning – the 24/7 liquor license ensured we always had somewhere to keep drinking.