Recently, I encountered a comment suggesting that my writing had become a substitute for my gambling addiction. This observation wasn’t framed as a positive transformation; rather, it hinted at an unhealthy obsession with writing that could be as dangerous as my previous addiction.
I began blogging shortly after I came clean about my addiction. My life was in chaos. I had just revealed to friends and family that I had hidden my gambling issue for years and had even engaged in illegal activities to support it.
For me, rock bottom didn’t involve a police officer at my door or explaining my mistakes to my children. Instead, my lowest point was the overwhelming weight of my own shame. It was so profound that I found comfort only in darkness, where I felt safe from the judgment of others.
As rumors of my addiction spread among my peers, my shame morphed into an uncontrollable beast. I withdrew inward, plagued by fear and despair, unsure if I could ever face the world again without feeling utterly repulsed by myself.
Almost immediately after my secret was out, I sought help from a counselor specializing in gambling addiction. We discussed the ups and downs of recovery and the necessity of confronting my pain rather than burying it under the guise of addiction. She warned me that my feelings of shame might intensify before they improved.
And intensify they did. My shame became my identity, consuming me entirely. The agony was unbearable; I had not allowed myself to experience genuine emotion in years, perhaps ever. I couldn’t escape through gambling this time.
One night, overwhelmed by despair, I found myself crying uncontrollably. With a bottle of wine in one hand and sleeping pills in the other, I sat alone in my dark room. I could see only a despicable human being, a liar and a thief. I stripped away any good I had ever done, leaving behind only a shroud of darkness.
A sip of wine followed by a pill, another sip, another pill. I wanted to end it all.
But the suspense fades here; I’m still alive. That’s the irony of mixing sleeping pills and alcohol: before I could take the plunge, I fell into an unintended slumber. Perhaps I wasn’t ready to die after all.
The next day, I realized I needed to confront my demons, but the monumental hangover made it challenging to find the motivation. The faces of my two children offered me the drive I needed; they looked at me with unconditional love, seeing their mother rather than the monster I perceived myself to be.
That afternoon, I made an appointment with my counselor. Along with the shame of my addiction, I now carried the weight of a failed suicide attempt—an act I deemed selfish and unthinkable for a good mother. During our session, she encouraged me to write. “Write until the tears stop, then write some more,” she advised, and those words resonated deeply.
Once home, I poured my heart onto the page, letting tears flow as I wrote a letter to my younger self:
If only I could speak to you now, living in what feels like a hell. I promise you, it will get better. I know it seems impossible, yet you will find a way through. I’m here, writing this letter to you.
None of this is your fault. The person you fear isn’t worth your silence. I understand your fear of stepping outside to play. He will always be there, but you possess the strength to overcome it.
You want to scream, but you hold it in. I urge you to release those feelings; you don’t have to endure this alone. The pain will eventually subside. I believe he will leave, and you will move past this.
You may not understand why you hate him, as you’ve buried those feelings deep. Remember your inner voice; it is valid. You don’t have to embrace him or feel obligated to be near him. It’s not your fault, and I love you!
For every moment he stole from you, remember there is so much more waiting ahead. Life will be challenging, but when it becomes difficult, reach out. Not everyone will hurt you as he did.
I wrote those words to facilitate my recovery from an addiction that nearly claimed my life. I continued writing, and when the tears finally ceased, I wrote even more. I didn’t edit; I simply let the words flow.
Many women battling addiction have faced trauma. For me, expressing my pain through writing has empowered me to overcome it. It has helped me realize that I am not alone—not just in my recovery from gambling but also in surviving trauma that was beyond my control.
Each day I dedicate to articulating my thoughts offers me greater peace in my changed identity. I will never revert to the person I was before addiction; no one does. The journey of recovery truly unfolds one day at a time. Through writing, I have discovered a new passion—a positive alternative to the time I once spent in addiction. While some may find solace in exercise, painting, or volunteering, I have embraced writing. Celebrate the progress you make in recovering from an addiction that once haunted you.
Writing has empowered me to move past the initial shame that almost consumed me. It not only provides an escape from a troubled mind but also grants me the freedom to forgive myself. I can confidently say that writing has played a crucial role in my healing, alongside my counseling sessions. By channeling my energy into something I love, I have regained self-belief.
So no, writing hasn’t replaced my addiction; it has become one of the reasons I can proudly say I am clean. In fact, writing may have saved my life.
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Summary:
In this personal account, Jenna shares her journey through addiction and recovery, emphasizing how writing has been a transformative outlet for her pain and shame. After grappling with the weight of her gambling addiction and almost succumbing to despair, she found solace in expressing her thoughts on paper. Writing not only facilitated her healing but also helped her reclaim her identity and self-worth. Ultimately, Jenna illustrates that recovery is a personal journey and highlights the importance of finding healthy alternatives to cope with past trauma.
Keyphrase:
Writing as a tool for addiction recovery
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