Poker addiction effects the best of us which is no bad thing. Do you feel like we do about it?

A poker addiction may ruin your social life and hurt those around you, but what happens when it goes away?

There are several well-documented signs of addiction – you can get a list from your doctor and all good local council outlets. One of them is not being able to stop once you’ve started. At all. Ever. The complete absence of an off button. In the case of online poker addiction this is emotional and literal.

Unfortunately, being in my line of work makes it very difficult to ignore such symptoms. I’ll occasionally be writing a poker article and find myself typing a line like ‘and if you don’t feel like playing or there are no good games, walk away – poker will be there tomorrow.’ Great advice – sound, completely correct, good for your bankroll and emotional well-being… but I can count the number of times I’ve followed it on one hand (and I wouldn’t need all my fingers either).

No way out

If I’ve decided I’m going to play poker that’s what’s going to happen. The games can be bad – I’m still playing. I can be playing badly – I’m still playing. I can be tired, hacked off, spewing money with my flatmate on fire in the other room – guess what? I’m playing. When I’m taking the game seriously I can be very good at setting a time limit and sticking to it; other times I can play until my eyes start to quietly bleed, the sun comes up and America has a new president.

A week ago I settled down for a session of pot-limit Omaha. For those of you keeping score, my education continues and I’m making money at the heady $ 0.50/$ 1 limits. It was 10pm, our chums across the pond were starting to log on and I had a late-night caffeine hit steaming in a mug next to me. Everything was in place for a long, satisfying four-table session. I made sure I went through some extremely rigorous table selection to maximise my edge (joining six waiting lists and taking the first four that became open).

And we’re in… cards in the air. Four pretty things come to me on each of four tables, forming those oh-so satisfying patterns that Omaha brings. I begin the usual betting, raising and slip slowly into the numbness of my addiction. After a few minutes it becomes clear I’m not going to be off to the proverbial ‘flier’. In fact I haven’t won a single pot. Auto top-up is on and all four tables remain stubbornly on $ 100. That’s fine but I’m bleeding chips – every pre-flop raise is getting three-bet, every c-bet is being raised. As ever I tell myself it’s fine and this is PLO – hands will come and then the spew monkeys will give me their money like always.

Then a hand occurs that causes a strange response. I’m dealt K?-K?-5?-4? on the cut-off; it’s a strong connected hand especially in late position. I raise and a really loose player who’s playing way too many hands calls in the blinds. The flop emerges a rather delightful K?-9?-8?. Top set is a glorious thing and I still haven’t been playing PLO long enough not to start mentally counting the money; maybe we’re off to a flier after all. My foe leads into the flop. A lot of cards can come on the turn to kill my action or make his hand, so I’m happy to get it in now. I raise and he barely thinks before shoving. I snap-call, dreaming of him having a smaller set and being crushed – maybe he’s even bad enough to have two-pair.

His hand is flipped up and he shows 10?-9?-7?-5?. He’s in horrible shape, with just a straight draw and a pair – about as good as I could have hoped for. I’m aware of a faint feeling of need as the turn is dealt. The feeling that I really want to win this hand and this money – the kind of feeling if you play regularly you become determined to quash. The money is in good – that’s my job done and I can relax. The turn is a blank Q? before the turn brings a catastrophic 6? to make his straight.

Okay it’s a bad beat but not really that bad, so I move on and wait for the next time I get the money in good. Except that I don’t. The cards are still being dealt and I’m still clicking but I’m thinking about that beat. I’m frustrated about being down in the session having done nothing wrong. I’m unfocused, annoyed and playing sloppily.

Terminal error

Then, without any conscious decision on my part, I start shutting down tables. I’m halting my session after only 100 hands and not much more than 20 minutes.

Fine, it’s the ‘right thing to do’ – more money was going down that starting-to-tilt hole – but forget all that; why was I doing it? I’ve never stopped playing in the past when my tiltometer started rising. So why now?

Frankly, I’m worried. I seem to be stopping my obsessive behaviour and starting to make rational decisions instead. It seems hard to believe it, but maybe my poker addiction is starting to come to an end… Now that is a scary thought – I’m not sure I can face life outside the safety blanket of the poker bubble…

Thankfully, less than half an hour after logging off, the withdrawal symptoms kick in and I’m already itching to get back in the game. I’m still an addict I tell you. An addict!

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