I looked like an ordinary grandmother of six – but I was hiding a secret so shameful it destroyed my life and landed me in jail

If you saw me on the street or in the supermarket, you would assume what most do: that I am an ordinary grandmother.

But at the age of 73, I’m ready to share with the world a secret that I’ve kept hidden from my friends and family for years. A secret that consumed every aspect of my life and eventually saw me land in prison for a shocking crime.

I was a criminal, but I was also a slot machine victim. It’s the term we Australians use to describe slot machines you find in casinos or pubs. I didn’t get my first spin until I was in my late fifties. It started as mere curiosity. I never thought I would become addicted; after all, I was never a big drinker and never dreamed of touching drugs.

Yet those damn machines were spiraling into a deep gambling addiction that would destroy my life as I knew it and deeply hurt those closest to me.

It started with a few gaming sessions with friends in the various ‘VIP rooms’ near my house in the Melbourne suburb of Frankston. Soon it was part of my routine.

It started as a weekly habit. I would head straight to the slots after finishing my 9-5 job in administration.

Within a few months I found that I couldn’t go more than a day or two without sneaking into the RSL for a point. I spent a whopping 60 hours a week glued to my chair trying my luck over and over again.

The thrill of a potential big win became the most important thing in my life. The next twist could be it. Just one more.

As the hours passed, I sat in front of the alluring neon-lit machines. Not only was it entertainment, it immediately relieved the stress of my life. It was an injection of dopamine with every turn.

And I didn’t realize how much trouble I was in until I was too far away.

The seeds of my addiction were planted in 2002. I was 51, divorced and lonely, so instead of going home to an empty house, I went out with coworkers and friends. As someone who had never been addicted to anything before, the idea that slot machines could become a problem didn’t even occur to me.

As my friends all trickled out, I would be the last one standing. Towards the end of a gaming session, I found myself surrounded by strangers at an ungodly hour.

“You can never win on these machines,” I muttered to the gamblers around me as I mindlessly bet another $50.

I’m ashamed to admit that there were times when the staff kicked me out at 3am before closing time. Maybe they felt sorry for me. If they hadn’t done that, I would have stayed there until the sun came up.

I would spend about $500 per session. It didn’t feel like much because I would be stimulated by the small victories. The most I ever won was $2,000, but I never cashed it out. I just put it right back in, desperately hoping for that elusive jackpot.

I would promise myself that next time I would win it all back. It never happened. With each loss my sense of shame increased; I was drowning.

Before I knew it, I had emptied my bank account and my savings were gone.

My depression worsened and I considered suicide. After a particularly great loss, I had a very real and frightening urge to swerve my car off the road and into a tree. The only thing holding me back was my two sons and six grandchildren. I couldn’t leave them behind.

The scariest part of all of this was that not once through all of this did I consider myself a compulsive gambler. Addiction didn’t happen to people like me.

So when I ran out of money and started stealing money from my employer to support my habit, it didn’t seem so bad.

The scam was simple: I created fake company names and transferred company funds to me under the guise of regular invoices. Because I handled it the finances, no one has ever questioned it. I knew it was illegal, but I planned to pay it all back with my next win.

I wasn’t caught until someone went through the books thoroughly in 2015 and I got a call from the police that would change my life.

My brother and I went to the station together and I sat there stunned as the officers explained the seriousness of my crimes.

I stole $407,000 from my employer over seven years. I knew I had taken a lot – maybe $80,000 or so – but not this.

That’s the other thing about gambling addiction: it robs you not only of your money, friends, career and dignity, but also of precious years of your life.

Until that moment, I had never done anything wrong in my life, not even a parking ticket. So the idea of ​​going to prison petrified me. This wasn’t me.

My family couldn’t believe it. They had no idea. But why would they? Not only was I lying to myself all the time, but I was also lying to everyone around me. So you can imagine the reaction they had to this news.

My addiction has made me a big liar. It was easy to make excuses for my absences and late nights, especially since I was divorced and my sons were busy with their own families.

My addiction landed me in prison for 18 months after stealing $407,000 from work over seven years

When I was told I was going to prison in 2016, it was the scariest moment of my life. I wasn’t fit for life behind bars. My only saving grace was that my family, although completely shocked, supported me.

“Mom, you made a big damn mistake, but we love you,” my oldest son told me.

Still, I will never forget the looks on their faces in the courtroom when the judge pronounced my sentence. It was the lowest moment of my life.

Then I was taken to the cells and then transported by truck to prison. The guards searched me – something no woman in her sixties should have to experience. I showered and put on my prison clothes.

Prison is not like in the movies. I had my own room, desk and TV and had my meals delivered in small containers. I spent two weeks in that first facility before being transferred to a “farm-style” women’s prison that focused more on rehabilitation and light work.

In Australia, a farm prison operates with minimum security and focuses on providing education to prisoners.

The hardest part wasn’t being away from family, the rough lifestyle or the food. It was learning to live with my fellow prisoners.

“Shut up, you stupid old fart,” a young woman snapped at me during my first week.

“You have to learn to be tough if you want to survive here,” sneered another.

I didn’t know how to behave in prison. There is no manual for suddenly losing your freedom and finding yourself surrounded by fellow criminals.

I didn’t know that sitting in front of a colorful machine could be an addiction – and if it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone

I was behind bars for eighteen months and during that time I had a counselor who taught me a lot about myself and my addiction.

He started me on exposure therapy, where he brought in a picture of a poker machine. I couldn’t touch the photo and looking at it made me throw up from the stress. Other inmates with gambling problems told me they had the same reaction.

You lose all your knowledge if you are a gambling addict. You think you’re doing fine and think these machines can’t hurt you, but they can. It took a prison to learn that lesson.

I used to blame myself for doing the wrong thing, but I’ve since realized it wasn’t entirely my fault. The machines distorted my brain, that’s what they were designed to do.

About three-quarters of the women in my prison were there for gambling-related crimes. It’s a harrowing statistic, but it meant I wasn’t alone.

When I was released, my first step was to pay back the money I stole. I did this by using the inheritance my father left me and my pension. Now I have nothing left and I will rent until I die.

But at least my life was back on track. I had paid my debt to society and was a free woman.

I only slipped once.

Last year I marched into a venue ready to gamble, but luckily the staff recognized me and turned me away. I was furious with myself and burst into tears when a friend happened to call me later that day. She reminded me that I wasn’t beating myself up, but it was a sobering reminder that I had a lot more work to do.

Later, my counselor gave some wise advice: “I want you to set a time limit on how long you are going to wallow in your own self-pity.”

At first I thought it was a strange idea, but I did just that. I cried for an hour that night and when the alarm went off, I was done.

My sadness immediately turned to anger. Anger about the gambling industry and those horrible machines designed to numb your brain and ruin your life.

They are programmed to make you think that all your problems are far away, when in reality they do the exact opposite.

The best way I have found to fill the void left by gambling is to educate others about this terrible addiction.

I speak at gamblers’ events and perform as part of ‘Three Sides of The Coin’, a theater show aimed at introducing others to slots.

I know this will stay with me for the rest of my life; the compulsion will never completely go away and I have to accept that. But it’s me now aware of the triggers and how I can change my way of thinking.

I know I’ve made mistakes, but if I can use my story to prevent what happened to me from destroying someone else’s life, then I will. keep speaking out.

My message is clear: if it happens to me, it could really happen to anyone. Even you.

If you need support, call the Gamblers Helpline on 1800 858 858 or Lifeline Australia on 13 11 14

• As told to Carina Stathis