Published February 15, 2026 | By Alyx E, Founder of Collectors MD
During the throes of active addiction, I told myself I was always playing to win. That was the story I clung to. But looking back honestly, I can see something much darker underneath it. I wasn’t just chasing wins. I was chasing the chaos that came from being down. Down bad. Getting myself into a massive hole created an overwhelming sense of urgency, and that urgency delivered a rush that a clean win never could.
There was something sadistically intoxicating about being deeply buried. Being down meant I had a mission. It meant adrenaline. It meant intensity. It meant feeling something. Sitting down and winning right away felt flat by comparison. Subconsciously, I think I was playing to lose so I could justify the adrenaline-filled chase that followed. The dopamine didn’t come from winning. It came from fighting my way back to even.
Once I started losing, walking away was never an option for me. I’d keep going. I’d double down. I’d open multiple seats. I’d split hands. I’d fight relentlessly to come back. The goal became singular: get back to even or lose it all. That’s what made it so dangerous. That’s what made it so toxic. It wasn’t about money anymore. It was about relief.
The most addictive part of it all wasn’t the win, it was the split second where everything felt like it could be undone if I just stayed in long enough.
That moment in a game like blackjack captures the entire trap with brutal clarity. Sitting there with a massive wager on the table, multiple splits, double downs stacked, heart racing as the dealer turns over the next card. That pause. That suspended breath. The rush was euphoric. And when it hit, it felt like oxygen. But when it didn’t, the sickness that followed wasn’t disappointment. It was panic. And that panic demanded the cycle continue.
That same pattern would show up in my collecting journey too. Breaks. Repacks. Sealed wax. Late nights. Session after session. The deeper I got, the harder it became to “come back”. The odds were always exponentially worse with sports cards. Losses compounded slowly, and even “wins” weren’t liquid, requiring a delayed and uncertain path back to cash. But the structure was familiar. The chase felt the same. Whether it was playing cards on a felt table or sports cards on a break mat, the cycle kept feeding itself.
In hindsight, the truth I can’t ignore is this: I wasn’t addicted to winning – or even money for that matter. I was addicted to the intensity of fighting back from the depths of desperation. The pressure. The urgency. The illusion that one more hand or one more hit could make it all okay. That’s the trap. That’s the cycle. And once you see it for what it truly is, you can finally step out of it.
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Recovery begins when we stop confusing relief with healing and chaos with purpose.
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