Everything started when I was about 13 — just a teenager, back in the year 2000. I was out playing with my friends when a man came up to us and asked if we could press the buttons on a gambling machine for him. He said he had promised his family that he would stop gambling, but he still wanted to play. I didn’t know then that by helping him, I was taking the first step into what would become a 12-year prison of addiction. In the next few weeks, I started small — just using my pocket money. Even though I was still in school and under 18, some places would let me play. At the beginning, it was nice and fun. A few losses, a few wins — it felt exciting. But that “nice and fun” feeling disappeared very quickly, and within two years, chaos had started. I began using all the money my parents gave me, lying to them, then stealing from home. Without even realizing it, I had left school to go to work. At 16 I was washing cars, and every pound I earned went straight into gambling. My 18th birthday came, and of course, it found me inside a casino — gambling away all the money meant for my party, and everything my family and friends had given me. At 19, I decided to leave my country and move to Spain. Everyone thought I was going there to build a better future, but the truth was I hoped a new place would make me stop gambling. Spain meant less gambling for me — mostly because I had no money. A new country, no place to sleep, no work — just a 19-year-old sleeping on a cold bench. I was angry at myself for leaving home to chase a better future, only to end up homeless because of gambling. One day, I met a man who offered me a place to stay and a job picking oranges. I believed him, hoping I could send good news home — my mother had just survived a stroke, and I didn’t want her to worry. I worked hard and became the best picker in the field. After a week, the boss told me there was no money yet and gave me €70 for food. I worked another week — and that €70 went straight into the first gambling machine I saw.