Poker, Pain, and the Empty Room

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There are times I sit down to play poker, not because I want to win — but because I need somewhere to go.
A place where the rules are clear.
Where I can focus on something other than the grief rolling through my body.

And sometimes, it works.
Sometimes, it helps me breathe again.
But other times… it doesn’t.

Other times, poker becomes a mirror I’m not ready to look into.

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🎭 Poker as a Coping Mechanism

I’ve played when I’m emotionally charged more times than I can count.
Not to chase adrenaline, but to escape the discomfort of what I’m really feeling.

And when I do — I don’t play well.
I tilt faster. I misread spots. I make poor decisions.
Not because I’m a bad player — but because I’m not really there.

I’m trying to soothe a wound using variance.
I’m trying to get clarity from chaos.
And the losses hurt way more than they should.

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💸 How Much Has This Cost Me?

If I’m honest, I’ve probably lost tens of thousands over the years just by playing when I was dysregulated.
When I wasn’t grounded.
When I used the game to carry pain I didn’t want to face.

But in the long run, I haven’t lost. Not really.

Because I’m learning.

Learning that poker isn’t just a game — it’s a reflection of my internal state.
And when I can’t hold myself, the game will hold a mirror up to that, too.

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🐛 The Empty Room

Right now, I feel like I’m in what my tutor once called “the cocoon stage.”
But it doesn’t feel like a transformation.

It feels like death.
Not literal — but emotional.

A kind of nothingness.
Low energy.
Disconnection.
Lethargy.
Like I’m shedding something I didn’t choose to lose.

There’s a silence here that’s almost unbearable.
Like I’m floating in an empty room with no light, no direction — just grief.

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🧭 And Yet, There’s Still a Compass

There’s a quiet part of me that knows:
This is the work.
This is the transformation.

Not the flash. Not the breakthrough.
But the in-between.
The crumble before the clarity.

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🧠 So What Now?

Here’s what I’m holding onto:

• I don’t need to play when I’m dysregulated. The game will always be there. My centre won’t.
• This isn’t forever. The cocoon isn’t a coffin. It’s a necessary pause before something real takes shape.
• Small steps are sacred. Breathing. Resting. Not chasing. That’s progress — even if it doesn’t look like it.

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💬 Final Thought

If you’re here too — in your own version of the empty room — know this:

You’re not broken.
You’re not behind.
You’re just in it.
And in time, what feels like nothing will turn into something.

Maybe not quickly.
Maybe not obviously.

But the seed is already planted.
And you’re becoming someone who doesn’t just survive storms —
but knows how to sit with them without losing who you are.

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