Just so you know

When I read back on these posts I can see how ridiculous they can be, I am aware of it but I'm trying to demonstrate the thought process of an addict as he tries to rationalise, blame others and abdicate responsibility. I want to put it in writing so, when I read back I will spot the warning signs as I start to try to find excuses to gamble again, as demonstrated in previous posts.

Tuesday, 25 September 2012

I have lifted this article from a brilliant blog but am not posting a link as it seems a little contradictory to link to a gambling related BLOG. You may ask why am I reading it ? I wish I could answer honestly.

Notice how the layout is green all over.

From today's Observer, a well written article by playwright Ranjit Bolt on the topic of gambling addiction. I liked this quote:
I even managed to convince myself that I was earning a living from the game. It took many weeks of steady, daily losses before a nagging suspicion was born that something might be amiss. A subsequent check of bank and credit card statements revealed a £4,000 net loss in a matter of weeks. How?
Here's the article in full:
What began as fun evenings of poker led to a serious gambling addiction for playwright Ranjit Bolt. Here, he describes the lure of the game – and the devastating effects on his life
It is nine o'clock on a Saturday night and I should be at an old friend's party. There are likely to be nice people there, artistic, talented; and the hostess is a wizard cook. It was seven for seven thirty, dress smart but "not too smart"...
I am not at the party however. Nor is my dress remotely smart, consisting as it does of a fisherman's sweater, more holes than wool, and a pair of frayed tracksuit pants smelling faintly of urine. This is my usual garb – my uniform, if you will – when I visit my betting shop of choice in north London.
There is one other punter in the place – a nicotine-stained old guy in a raincoat who is operating a strange roulette system consisting of a plethora of tiny stakes that more or less cancel each another out.
I used to watch small-scale punters like this with contempt. I've always been a big-bet man myself, usually staking the maximum allowable sum in all the major chains (£100) on my preferred game – blackjack. Then one day I found myself in a Ladbrokes shop on a Saturday afternoon with every station occupied. I waited a quarter of an hour for a seat to come vacant. It was then that I realised that the size of the bet didn't count for anything: I was just as desperate and sleazy as the rest of them.
That convinced me of the true nature of my predicament, though sadly it didn't do anything to curtail it. So I would find myself, at 9.50am, hovering on the threshold of William Hill in South End Green, waiting for the joint to open. Hard to retain much self-respect after that. No less pitiful, you might say, than an alcoholic outside the off licence at 9.50am on a winter morning, slapping his cirrhotic sides against the cold.
After wishing my confrere an unacknowledged "Good luck", I make my way to a terminal and park my backside on the sticky black leather seat.
I've gambled online, and in live casinos, but neither has the same, uniquely sordid appeal as the betting shop. It's the tackiness of the betting shop that, for me, puts it without peer as a means of wrecking your life. And among the charms of the betting shop, blackjack has the greatest appeal.
This has something to do, I assume, with the structure of the game: the ability to stand or take another card creates an irresistible illusion of control. With roulette, you spin the wheel, and that's it; horses: once they're off, ditto. Whereas with blackjack, few things can match the adrenaline rush you get when that third card takes you to 20 or, incredibly, to 21.
If you're not familiar with gaming machines, they are, in appearance and construction, not unlike the automatic ticket vendors at railway stations. Though, in this case, in return for the money you feed in, you mostly get nothing back.
The soulless strip lighting of the shop creates a curiously appealing, dismal ambience – a kind of physical equivalent to my own spiritual landscape. I'm starting to think the north London artistes I ought to be rubbing shoulders with at this moment don't know what they're missing as they chew on their boeuf bourguignon and mashed potato canap├ęs and sip Rioja. So, why am I here? Well, clearly because I'm a schmuck, but that's not what I mean; I mean biographically speaking …

For many years an old friend of mine and I have been devotees of poker. It began with evenings of spontaneous, anarchic, life-enhancing mayhem at his flat, escalating from there, by insidious steps, into a serious fortnightly home game complete with league table and annual trophy. Now, if all poker – all gambling games, in fact – are potentially addictive and obsessional, Texas Holdem is both of those things to the power of 10.
Being endowed with just the right, catastrophic psychic make-up, I was pretty soon hooked. One day in February 2005 I asked the old pal in question if there was anywhere you could play Holdem online. He chortled and gave me the name of a "reputable" site. That night I opened an account and began to play.
I started in a restrained way – five or six hours a day – maybe a bit more if I had no work on. Soon I was convinced I'd struck gold. Here, at last, was the steady, reliable source of income I'd been dreaming of ever since giving up a well-paid job in the City to concentrate on, of all things, translating 17th-century French verse comedies.
I couldn't keep this goldmine I'd hit on to myself. I announced arrogantly at dinner parties that I had discovered a new string to my bow, a sure-fire revenue stream. The "fish" (poker speak for bad players) out there had to be seen to be believed. I even managed to convince myself that I was earning a living from the game. It took many weeks of steady, daily losses before a nagging suspicion was born that something might be amiss. A subsequent check of bank and credit card statements revealed a £4,000 net loss in a matter of weeks. How?
I was an addict by now, of course, and that kind of self-delusion is standard addict practice. Worse still, because of the peculiar nature of gambling addiction – many experts reckon it's the hardest of all addictions to cure – once it dawned on me that I was in fact losing, I figured the only way to recoup the money was to play more and then yet more.
One time, after playing non-stop for three days, so that the index finger of my right hand had started to tingle from repeatedly clicking the mouse to bet on or fold a hand, I woke to find that somebody had broken into my flat during the night and festooned it with playing cards. They were all over the walls, they were dangling from the curtains. Wherever I went – bathroom to wash, kitchen to make breakfast – they kept popping up.
I dismissed this (despite having once suffered from a bout of manic depression that included delusions) as some sort of short-term optical glitch that was only to be expected in the circumstances, and soon hurried back to my laptop to resume playing.
Then, around lunchtime, I was in the loo, when I looked down and saw that there was a playing card lying in the bottom of the bowl. This was no vague optical effect, either, but a perfectly formed, shiny new king of hearts.
I called my GP, fixed an emergency appointment and got myself straight down there. "You're mad," she said, perhaps more accurately than she'd intended, when I had described the situation. "You have a history of mental problems. You should not be doing this. Go home, switch off your computer, or better still, chuck it in the bin and take this pill and get some sleep."
She placed a large white tablet in my hand. Feeling a whole lot better, I reckoned I would just get a couple more hours' play in, take the tablet and turn in.
Unfortunately, I drifted off in the middle of a hand, without having taken the pill, and when I woke up a couple of hours later I was dying...
Well, perhaps not quite. In the ambulance they informed me that I was having a massive atrial fibrillation, brought on by four days and nights without sleep, sprayed something on the roof of my mouth, and asked for my next of kin. On reaching A&E I was attended to with worrying promptness and a drip was inserted in my neck. I was in there all the next day, my pulse returning to normal just 20 minutes before I was scheduled to be medically "rebooted".
All this makes gambling seem a dark and destructive business, and, of course, it can be. But that's pretty obviously not the whole story. Like all addictive activities, it offers astonishing highs – highs as high as the lows are low. If it didn't, who on earth would take it up in the first place? During a lucky streak, for instance, I get a sense of quite astonishing and implausibly sustained wellbeing. There was the time, to cite one of many, when I turned my last £2,000 in the world into £82,000 over a spell of about three weeks. (The fact that I went on to blow the lot in 10 minutes and was suicidal for a fortnight thereafter is another matter.) Regaining a recent loss brings a special pleasure of its own, as any gambler will tell you: a weird, warped sense of redemption.
Equally true, on the other hand, is an observation by Casanova, who had a sideline in gambling and noted that inside every serious gambler lurks a miser. Or, to put it another way, a greedy klutz wanting something for nothing.
But, yes, the highs. Perhaps even more exhilarating than that 80 grand streak was the day when I had gambled everything away except a £5,000 overdraft facility. By this stage I had had to remortgage my flat to the tune of £20,000. I spent the day debating with myself whether or not I should try my luck and see what I could do with that 5k.
What had I got to lose? It wasn't even my money, but the bank's.
As usual, the inner demons (the shrinks, the addiction experts, call it this "permission thought") won the argument, and at midnight, came the start of a new 24-hour period, which meant that I was allowed to deposit fresh funds. I transferred the overdraft money to my William Hill account and sat down to a hand of blackjack, staking the maximum allowable amount on one hand of £5,000.
I hit 20 with that hand, won, 20 with the next, won again, won again with the third bet. In the space of two minutes I had not merely quadrupled my 5k overdraft, but could now pay off my mortgage and be, once more, to some degree at least, a free man.
I collapsed on the sofa, numb with joy, sandbagged by bliss. But the demons were of the opinion that I shouldn't stop there. In their judgment this was clearly a streak, and there was at least one more win out there – possibly even blackjack, which pays 150%. I went back to my laptop, put another 5k on and hit blackjack. In 10 minutes, from four consecutive hands, I had made £22,500, and changed my life. I remember sitting in the dark for half an hour with such joy and relief washing over me.

But, for the MOST PART, the order of the day has, inevitably, been self-destruction. I have lost, at a conservative estimate, a quarter of a million pounds over the past seven years. And I am once again remortgaged, for 30k this time.
I do not complain about any of this – not the debt, the near-death experience, not even the huge and horribly dark spells of despair and self-loathing. Nor am I especially plagued when I remember that, but for gambling, I would now be living on a comfortable income from royalties scrimped and saved over 15 years of hard showbiz slog.
There is nothing worse in this world than a sore loser, and nowhere is that more true than in gambling. The tax revenues from the big gaming companies help build schools and hospitals, pay for teachers, doctors and nurses. This is something, I tell myself.
I do sometimes wonder quietly why walking down any major street in London has to be, for me and my fellow gambling addicts, rather like negotiating Scylla and Charybdis – Paddy Power or Betfred here, William Hill or Ladbrokes there. But the resentment doesn't last. I have swallowed my pride, sought professional help, attended GA meetings. At the time of writing I haven't gambled, in any shape or form, for several months.
The other day, for instance, as I approached Finchley Road, near where I live – a thoroughfare positively festooned with betting shops – I conceived a strong urge to have a flutter on the betting machines. What harm could it do, now that I was cured?
I found myself walking, like a zombie, towards the nearest of the outlets. I must have forgotten the time I once lost £6,000 trying to win £2 to cover the cost of a piece of broccoli I'd deemed overpriced.
Suddenly, like young Stephen Dedalus in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, as he walks down Lott's Lane in search of stimulus, then suddenly spins round and heads for home, I turned. The pull on me as I headed back toward the bus stop, and home, was astonishingly powerful. The feeling of triumph as I boarded a bus and headed for Hampstead (where any betting shop manager worth his salt will, at my own request, eject me from the premises on sight) was one that, to anybody who hasn't been there, might seem pathetic.
The gambler in me is still looking to recoup, needless to say. But now he does it in different ways. It's a truism to say that no very disastrous experience is without its compensatory positives – its winnings, in other words. What I have gained from gambling is twofold. Firstly, there is a much-needed sense of one's own fallibility that I suspect was lacking in me before the debacle began. Secondly, and perhaps more usefully, I have acquired a measure of immunity to disaster.
Misfortune of sundry kinds, and especially financial, can easily be put into perspective by the mere recollection of the mayhem one has been through. That is a perhaps not inconsiderable boon in these days of, for many of us, unwonted austerity and ongoing financial uncertainty. I am, if you like, a mini Greece, only a stop or two ahead, with a viable reconstruction package already in place, and working. Whether this is all bunkum, and I turn out to be another De Quincy – bragging about how he'd beaten his addiction to opium when he was taking the stuff till the day he died – only time will tell.

Sunday, 2 September 2012

Is today the day?

Still dormant, no bets, took out my agitation on the garden yesterday and then went to see Ted last night with the wife.

Stupid adolescent puerile and not very clever, I loved it, best laugh I had in a while.

Just got SKY sports in for the 'pool match today, keep me out of the pub and all the "What price are Liverpool", "What price the first goalscorer ?".

The great thing is I haven't a clue of either, but, if I were to go to pub it wouldn't be long before I'd be spouting wisdom and displaying the superior knowledge that has lost me tens of thousands.

I might go over at half time, especially if we are winning 'cos there are some buddies of mine that LOVE Arsenal so I want to be able to rub their noses deep, really deep.

For any Paddies out there, All Ireland football semi today would normally be another challenge for me but, hey ho, fuck it.Love to see Mayo win but I feel the Dubs are nailed on (once again I don't know the price) AND I feel the Dubs will beat Donegal.

I still have every intention of resuming trading and getting all my money back, when I hit the Premium charge stage (about 100K in profit, I will stop). Just not today,


Sweet fuck, I'm itchy today.

Friday, 31 August 2012

Another update

Strange times, I have not gambled since May 16th, but I will today.

Why ?

I will be trading today because I feel my failings in the past are not due to an addiction, merely incompetence. I embraced the addiction tale to ignore my inadequacies. This is how I feel, I am pretty sure it's Gollum creeping up on me again, but, I have rationalized this to myself and have decided to do it.

I have not attended a GA meeting in 4/5 weeks and feel no need.

I am finding them repetitive and predictable. Same people, same self criticism, same self hatred, accepting the bad things in ourselves yet the only way of beating it is to attend meetings of like minded people and repeat our sins and create a cycle of self loathing that perpetuates the misery.

I have decided to beat gambling today by actually trading my way out of this crap, I'm fed up of misery, I'm fed up of other's misery and I will succeed.

The above post is exactly how I feel after 3 1/2 months without gambling, I hope I'm not posting more misery here this afternoon after returning to the "monster". For all I know this is the Gambling Addiction twisting my logic, but this is how it is.

Sunday, 17 June 2012

One month in - How's it going ?

Hi, my name is Paddy, I'm a compulsive gambler, I have not had a bet today or since my last post.

In fact, it is now a month, and more significantly 2 pay days since I had a bet. How is all the anguish and hardship of not having a bet? This past week contained neither anguish or temptation, so good in fact I was even questioning if I really have an issue.

I didn't attend the Gamblers Anonymous (GA) meeting this week as I had some other things to deal with, notably chaos in work and my eldest daughter needed some support on a small issue, (big to her, but not the end of the world).

I was reflecting on both the ease of the past week (from a not betting sense) and my absence from the GA meeting and actually beginning to question if I really have a major issue, 'cos if I can do it for a month then I can surely start having a small bank to trade with and control it like I have done for the month past. I was actually starting to believe this shit so I went back and read my first post, it didn't take long t relive the anguish, terror and despair.

I have also just realised I haven't watched a horse race live for a month, I did watch a replay of the derby, (good horse, poor race) but that was it. Strangely enough, I haven't met or gone for a pint with my erstwhile best mate, I think now the major thing we had in common was the horses and punting. Nice guy, but when I consider his behaviour objectively I think he may not be too far away from my current stage. I was at church recently and visited the grave of another recently departed mate of mine, suicide was the verdict but nobody knew why, I do, and I don't want to be beside him, so, regardless if the worm in my head, telling me it will be OK to just have a small bank and start again I cannot slip.

I think the absence of the GA meeting has allowed the miasma of gambling and twisted logic to creep in. I have a small issue with the meetings in that they are a torrent of negative emotion and self loathing, and in there own way kinda create a reliance on the attendee to become addicted to their content and sense of belonging. I feel there is an onerous source of self loathing present but, is that my little worm trying to turn me away from what has worked for a month ? Not too sure, but I need to be very careful.

The biggest issue in my life now is that I haven't come clean to my wife or other members of my family regarding my addiction, and the longer I leave it run the bigger the lie will be. We have had an artificially good month, no spontaneous rows (ALWAYS caused by me) and I feel my impending bombshell with cause untold damage to our relationship. I really don't know what to do, or more importantly when to do.

Anyway, 16th May was a paradigm shift in my life, but it is only the first step. The challenges that lie ahead are scary, I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to face it.

Thanks to all the members of the betting blogging community (I used to be one of them) who have directed traffic to this blog, the strange thing is this blog is getting more hits than my previous one with less traffic sources, a little scary I think.

Cassini, enjoy the holiday.

My name is Paddy, I'm a compulsive gabler, and I'm still a lying deceitful prick, how much has actually changed ?

Monday, 11 June 2012

We do not indulge in self-pity and begun to feel the laws of compensation operating in all life.

This is the second part of the definition of a mature person. Once again, I fail the criteria above. I have a massive tendency to look for some stupid excuse to blame my "misfortune" on anything but myself. Why me ? Why does it happen to me?
Shit happens for no reason, that's life and if I didn't place the bet in the first place I wouldn't have any misfortune to rue.

I am actually in work now, and had to make a post as I am feeling none to well after last night's guinness. I went online to have a look at the indo (against company policy as is this) and suddenly realised  was looking at the racing section. Next step, the sporting life site and then, then, here we go again.

I opened this post instead and took out the little red book. One nil to me, very easy to subconsciously revisit old ground.

I only really noticed how much we Irish absorb betting into every sporting event last night, the pre match pub wisdom was exclusively about the betting, 4/1 Ireland not to score a goal all tournament, first goalscorers etc.

I didn't feel uncomfortable with the subject matter nor exclude myself from the discussion, it would have been hard as EVERYBODY was talking about the betting. It is omnipresent in our culture but strangely less important in most other European countries, with the obvious exception of England. Why is this I wonder ? What is in our psyche to have it so important in everything we do?

I actually enjoyed the banter and watched the game with a sense of disappointment rather than dread, like a normal person, only a fucked up one.

Euro 2012 - We are crap

Pretty sick this morning as I stayed out too late after the Croatia game than was sensible.

It is actually quite strange watching a game without any financial consequences. Much more fun for me, Ireland were just not good enough, and can anyone please tell me what does Robbie Keane contribute ?

Not a bad weekend, didn't win or lose anything but maybe got a little more relaxed about stuff in general. I usually like to paint a picture of anguish and woe, but in all honesty no urges and perhaps it's time to attribute a little personal accountability, I did the stupid things, no one made me do it, get on with the consequences.

Now I need to come up with a master plan on how to beat Spain, maybe some sugar in the diesel tank of their bus ?

Sunday, 10 June 2012

1 We accept criticism gratefully, being honestly glad for an opportunity to improve.

Hello, my name is Paddy, I am a compulsive gambler, I have had no bet today or since my last post.

Thanks to those who left comments of support yesterday. Life is kinda funny sometimes and other times less so. I have posted updates on my previous BLOG at similar times to this with rants and rancour about every possible subject, usually after staying up most of the night and finding some way to lose a shed load of cash.

One commentator mentioned the success of walking past a bookie, that was never an issue as my "bookie" is the instrument I am typing on now. I used to sit watching sport, all forms of sport all non working hours with my laptop open (on youtube, or some other innocuous site) waiting for an opportunity to make a fortune  and display my superior sporting knowledge. I often did, and then blew it on race 10 in Belmont 20 minutes later.

I am only awake now because of the fact I collected my daughter from nights and had an espresso while waiting, so that is progress. I am not tied up in waves of anguish and nausea after another night of fuckology, just wide awake and bored shitless. Rather than surf the net (too early to be looking for free porn) I am reading the little red GA handbook and addressing some  of the content.

For the few days I'm concentrating on "the definition of a mature person".

1 We accept criticism gratefully, being honestly glad for an opportunity to improve.

My response, I do in my arse. I am always right and consider myself highly intelligent.

I think it is part of the defence mechanism that evolves in a gamblers warped psyche, because if we started to value the insights and observations of others as per our behaviour it would remove the delusion that our behaviour is normal. It is not normal to know the odds on every market pre match, it is not normal to be able to predict the prices in running based on a variety of circumstances. It is not normal to know that Pivotals (sire) excel on soft ground. It is not normal to know that Dandy Nichol's strike rate for top weights in Handicaps between March and August is almost zero, but from August on they strike with alarming regularity. It is not normal to know the percentage of goals a given team scores or concedes in the last 15 minutes of a  game before the fucking game even starts. This is my "expertise", indeed my omniscience often amazes me, this is how I bore the shit out of my "mates" quoting every price possible while their eyes glaze over as all I can talk about are the fucking prices of everything.

True that saying, I know the price of everything but the value of nothing.

I have "mates" in inverted commas as I have managed to surround myself over the years with people that suit my condition. This is back to the criticism issue, my mates are either compulsive gamblers like me or people who don't care enough about me to offer criticism, however warranted. We are comfortable in our bubble of self destruction knowing that if we lose it is not our fault, it's the ref, the jockey, the guy that drove the horse box or the fucker that watered the track. The fault will always lie elsewhere, never with us.

I have a relatively close family by many standards, but as a gambler I have managed to distance myself from them, it's a deliberate insidious process that begins almost subliminally and culminates in a sterile "relationship". Why, I don't want criticism, I want distance because deep down somewhere I know my personality and addiction has turned me into someone who doesn't really give a fuck about anyone else or their lives, all I care about is the next bet, the next way to lose money. I have emotional indigestion, I cannot listen to peoples issues or problems, highs or lows because all I care about the the next race, the next match, the next penalty or the next dwarf snot rolling competition. I have even become jealous of their successes and achievements, things I should revel in, but, as it highlights my own inadequacies I become cynical instead of proud. I'm a twenty first century gollum, I'm obsessed by myself and all my precious goals.

These traits are abhorrent in other people yet I have evolved to represent all these things. I have to learn to feel emotions again, to love, to hate (that's not an issue) and to accept things for what they are. Sanguinity (is that a real word ?) is my new goal, if someone tells me some home truths I must listen, I am not cleverer than everyone else, I am not wise, I am not insightful, I need to redevelop some emotions, I need to accept others for what they are, I need to grow again.

I have considered these things in the past, the difference this morning is I am not lost in a well of self pity, crying incessantly, I am merely stating facts, I have to accept what I am, not why I am.
One of the great quotes I heard recently was, "if you spend all your time looking back, you will never look forward". That was stated by the great philosopher Dot Cotton on Eastenders.

ps, I'm really looking forward to the Ireland game tonight, I don't know the odds, I don't know the prices of the first /second/ last goalscorer and at this moment I don't fucking care. I just want to watch it with all the others and scream like an idiot, not because I have just lost another wedge of money,  just because it'll be fun.

Feel free to help me or criticise me, I will ignore you but at least I'm trying. Sorry about the train of thought and lack of structure of the above post, it's 8 am and I'm full of caffeine and hope, quite a potent mix.

Anyway, my name is Paddy, I'm a compulsive gambler, I have fucked up my life, now I'm going to fix it.

Friday, 8 June 2012


Hello, my name is Paddy, and I'm a compulsive gambler.

I am a middle aged corporate monkey that has finally realised that my life is dominated by the most destructive of mistresses, gambling addiction. Why a mistresses ? She seduces me daily, I obsess with her, I know I shouldn't but have proven powerless to resist and the consequences of our relationship are disastrous and destructive.

I have been gambling via one form or another for over 30 years and my earliest memory of gambling is a tidy win for small sums on a horse called Meladon (I think) at our local track. Local for me is Waterford, Ireland.

The next fond memory I have is Party Politics winning the grand national,  why select him ? He was the biggest horse in the race with the biggest fences.

My life has been linked with gambling consistently since I was about 18 to May 16th this year, so that's a 25 year affair, longer than most relationships. I have not had a bet today or since May 16th this year when I attended my first Gamblers Anonymous meeting. I had finally reached what I hope was rock bottom and reached out to my brother for help, which was immediately forthcoming.

As a gambler I have managed over the years to distance myself from normal relationships with friends and family as one's life is one of subterfuge, deceit and lies to both oneself and those we "love". I have "love" in inverted commas because we have a perverted sense of love and our treatment of those close to us would indicate that we are incapable of real love. Back to the point, I reached out to my brother (who lives far, far away) for help when I was at an emotional nadir, having closed my laptop, beaten and broke. From a financial perspective I am in deep, deep trouble, but I feel that can be addressed over time, from an emotional perspective I am also in deep, deep trouble as highlighted by the content of my cry for help below. I have removed names and references to preserve anonymity but nothing else is altered.



I'm writing this to you in hope more than expectancy. Over the last  *****  years I started gambling again, on a serious level and have managed to hit the bottom of the barrel faster and in a bigger sense than any way I have managed previously. Long story short I have managed to fuck up myself good and proper at last. To be honest (contradiction for a person that lies from morning to evening) I don't really care about myself, or I wouldn’t be in this situation, but I'm here and the gravity of it has finally hit me.

I will probably lose all, as in family and deservedly so, as I don't think  *****  or the kids will be able to forgive me when the inevitable truth surfaces. I also think they would be better off without me in the long run (I don't mean to suggest anything sinister as I have considered all options that would leave them financially independent but cannot guarantee it, and I was always a coward anyway).I haven't got to the stage yet whereby all is gone but without intervention or help it's just about here.

Why you ? Why am I doing the begging bowl  ? The reason is that you are not here, If you were I couldn't face you, all I see is you and what you have become and have achieved.
I see it with  ***** , and  *****  and they deserve it and if possible I will avoid them and anyone like them. It's a fom of jealousy but I think you have known that for a couple of years now, it's not a jealousy of posessions or wealth, it's a jealousy of the type of people you guys have become, successful and more importanly , obviously happy.  I should be like that for my family, parents and you guys but all the time in your company , yours,  ***** , Mam and Dad's I know what I am and more importantly what I'm not.

Ye are everything I should be, you don’t spend every waking hour unable to show true feelings for those that really matter, you don't lie from sun up to sundown, you don't deprive your wife and kids of what they should have because you are too weak and selfish to provide as a proper adult should. You don’t spend years slowly alienating the only people that matter because you wont face the glaring truth about your own inadaquecies and selfish, self destructive behaviour. You are not embarrassed to be in the company of family or friends because you know deep down, that they know what you really are.

Even this mail is typical of me now, I'm alone downstairs, while  *****  is in bed, wondering what she has done that causes me to sit up all night watching television until 4 or 5 am or I sleep from pure exhaustion. In the evenings I'm not here it's because I'm in work until 8 or 9pm avoiding contact with those that are closest to me, I cannot face  *****  as I think her innocence highlights the contrast between good and me, and as a result don't show her the real affection she deserves. I don't drink anymore (not in 5/6 weeks) as I get dark and nasty, and try to hurt anyone that is dear to me (not physically) and recede into bouts of self loathing and blackness deep in my psyche, not nice in there I can tell you. I have evolved into a person, devoide of the emotional equipment to have proper relationships with people that matter. I have no issues communicating with strangers but when it comes to people that should matter, I don’t get involved, but I suspect, you already know this. The fact this is a mail merely reinforces this point.

I know it is unfair of me to unload this on you and am begging you not to tell anyone else as I don't think I could cope with it, it is only the fact you are not nearby and I don't have to face you, and more pertinently, face myself that is allowing me to type this drivel. When I say I have nowhere left to turn it is an insult to you as a brother, but the only light I can see in this tunnel is the train coming head on to meet me, and the worst thing is I'm not sure if I care.

Where do I go from here, do I try to play on you to dig me out again?
I know the next step is therapy and I intend to start immediately (painfully familiar), but how do I tell my family (apart from you) ? How do I rebuild my life without this permanent noose tightening and tightening. I have even managed to cut ties with any friends I had, now I realise it was a slow deliberate process, but, mission accomplished.  I don't go out, I sit here rotting. I cannot tell  ***** , I will be alone and that will be the final straw.

This self pitying crap is really a prelude to a request for help, (I have done all the sums, I'm good at that)  and there is no way I could begin to repay you for a minimum of  *****  years as it will take that long for me to pay off all the credit and loans (in the tens of thousands) I stared again  *****  years ago. I have always been resourceful when it came to lying and accessing money and maybe this is just another effort but I cannot continue this way of living any more and am looking for help to allow me to start over and have a real life. Sitting here, not sleeping and crying night after night (I was always a self pitying bawler, so nothing has changed) has driven me to this mail because I don’t even have the gumption to talk to you in person.

If you cannot see a means to help then I will think no less of you as a person, and in fairness it won't damage the relationship I have managed to quench slowly over the recent years.

If you can then maybe, with you help I can be a worthy human being too (I think I was one, once), if I haven't already passed that point.

I typed this last night, and am reading it again before I send it now. Once again, I am truly sorry to throw my crap to you, but I believe I can rescue this, and everything that should be really important.