02.10
He’s done it again. Gambled. £750+ in hours, the last £600 in minutes. For what? His mortgage is due tomorrow and there is a measly few pounds left in the joint family bank account. You ask yourself why. You remind yourself that this is an addiction but sometimes, most of the time, it isn’t enough.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if he’s not here. Would it hurt less, would there be less disappointment. I chastise myself for these thoughts and instead put them on a blank Word page. I hate myself for thinking this way. I hate that deep down I still love him, he's still my brother.
My brother has been a gambling addict since he was 16. He's now a 29 year old father or two. I’m
sure a Doctor or therapist would be able to tell you why. Pinpointing the moment
his brain triggered a chemical reaction that provoked the thrill of gambling,
the high. I am sure it stems back to childhood, my mum blames herself, my dad
blames my mum. I blame him, his brain, him.
I used to tell him that he was a good person despite this flaw. I’ve cried down the phone to him, bailed him
out. Supported him, suggested therapy. All ignored, it’s me who is now in
therapy. I can no longer separate the illness from the person. I used too think he was a good person, now I'm not so sure. He's still my brother.
