Few things have given me a greater thrill than the simple act of buying a round of drinks for my family in a lovely village pub recently. The bill for the seven of us came to around £35, and handing over my card to the bartender to settle it was a monumental achievement.

Before that, if ever I had a spare £35 I’d blow it on a game of online roulette. In fact, I wouldn’t have stopped at £35; the most I burned through in one gambling session was £11,000.

Looking at that figure now, it seems unbelievable that I could squander such a huge amount – more than I earned in three months in my teaching job – in a matter of hours.

But I was in the grip of a 12-year gambling addiction, with total losses of well over £75,000 – money that my husband and I could have used as a hefty deposit on a house.

It remains a source of guilt and shame that we still live in rented accommodation because of me – and that even if we could afford a mortgage, my terrible credit rating would prevent us from getting one.

Like most addicts, I spent years hiding my problem behind a horrible tangle of lies. The inner turmoil was excruciating… right up until I finally sought professional treatment for my addiction two years ago.

Gambling addiction is thought to be a male problem, but during my recovery I was given a shocking insight into the number of other women suffering as I was, from mothers and nurses to lawyers and architects.

Even at my worst, on the surface I was the epitome of a respectable, sensible, middle-class professional.

Gambling addiction is thought to be a male problem, but many women – respectable, middle-class professionals – hide their problem from loved ones 

I teach English in a private secondary school, play golf and padel, and have been married to my husband Will, who works in elite sports management, for seven years.

Both 36, we met at university, where I studied English. After graduating aged 22, Will moved to London to begin his career and I moved back in with my parents in Chester. While local friends started exciting new lives, I returned to the waitressing shifts I’d done during school holidays. I began to feel like a bit of a failure.

I remember being in my bedroom tinkering with my CV on my laptop when an advert popped up on the screen offering me a free £10 horse-racing bet.

‘Why not?’ I thought and, by sheer fluke, I won. Although I don’t recall how much, what I remember clearly is the buzz I felt in that moment. After months of feeling like a loser compared to all my friends, suddenly I felt good; like a winner. And I knew I wanted that feeling again.

Things escalated alarmingly quickly. Within two weeks I was gambling for six to eight hours a day, chasing that feeling of elation. Living board-free at home meant that when I got my weekly pay packet, I’d buy any essentials, such as toiletries, then gamble the rest away in under a week on online casino games. When I’d spent all my money, I took loans or worked overtime.

No one in my family gambled, so they didn’t suspect what I was doing during all those hours spent on my phone and laptop; in their minds, gambling probably happened in High Street betting shops or in casinos. And because we weren’t living together, Will didn’t pick up on it, either.

Yet it consumed my life, preventing me from applying for jobs, pursuing my hobbies and being sociable.

Roulette claimed my heaviest losses. I’d think nothing of throwing £200 at red or black – swiftly followed by another £200 to try to win back what I’d lost. If I had a big win I would splash out on new clothes, only to return them days later when I needed the money back. If I transferred the winnings to my bank accounts, it would quickly be debited for loan repayments.

‘Roulette claimed my heaviest losses. I’d think nothing of throwing £200 at red or black,’ said Annie

I’d then gamble again to win more money. I did it during breaks at work, in the toilets on rare nights out, or even waiting for dental or GP appointments.

My biggest win came in 2016. Aged 28, I was still living with my parents and working waitressing shifts at a hotel, and I had been gambling for six years. It was around midnight when I won £20,000 on the roulette wheel after taking out a loan of £1,000.

With my parents asleep in the next room, I remember quietly jumping up and down, then crying with relief. It meant I’d be able to pay back all of my outstanding loans – around £3,000 at the time – with plenty left over for a holiday or a car.

But, though I did pay back the loans, within a month I’d gambled the rest away. I remember crying and shaking in my room when the final few pounds vanished.

I told no one about these dizzying highs and crashing lows, and I felt terrible keeping so much from Will. In a way, I was living a double life.

Will and I moved into a rented house together in Hertfordshire not long after this episode, and got married in May 2017. At around the same time, I returned to university to gain a PGCE, having decided I wanted to teach.

Though I was able to resist gambling on our wedding day and during our honeymoon, the urge to do so returned as we began married life. That’s when I started taking out payday loans – a few thousand pounds at a time.

I began teaching English in a private senior school, and though I didn’t gamble while at school – it would have felt utterly inappropriate surrounded by children – the moment I got home from work, I’d go straight on to the casino sites before Will got home.

It wasn’t long, however, before he began to ask why I didn’t have money to contribute to the rent and bills. I’m ashamed to say I lied, telling him my bank account had been hacked. I’d then call my parents and ask to borrow money, spewing out the same lies.

Constantly in debt, at night I’d tiptoe out of our bedroom while Will was sleeping and sit in the dark in another room spinning the roulette wheel until I could no longer keep my eyes open.

At my lowest point in autumn 2021, I had payday loans of over £10,000. My credit rating was so atrocious that no other lenders would touch me. Still nobody suspected a thing.

We had agreed that Will would pay the bulk of the bills because his sports management career meant he earned considerably more than me.

The fact that his income was higher than mine meant he didn’t question my lack of funds as much as he may have done otherwise.

But I was beginning to feel hopeless. In desperation, I secretly visited my GP and admitted I had a gambling problem for the first time.

Rather than refer me for help, however, he sent me away with antidepressants, which I flushed down the toilet before continuing to gamble.

A year later, when I blew my entire monthly salary on the roulette wheel – around £3,000 after tax – within three days of being paid, I knew I couldn’t carry on.

I felt physically sick; one minute pacing the house in panic, the next climbing into bed feeling overwhelmed and mentally exhausted. There were times I struggled with suicidal thoughts, too.

It wasn’t so bad when I was busy with teaching, but in the school holidays – when I was in the house on my own while Will was at work – I’d feel depressed and desperate.

At home alone one afternoon, I finally got in touch with the gambling addicts charity GamCare and received a call from a lovely therapist called Jenny. I could barely speak for crying as the lies, secrets and shame of the past 12 years tumbled out.

When I confessed that not even my husband or my parents knew, we roleplayed how I might break the news to them.

This was the start of a seven-week, self-guided recovery programme. I was advised to use Gamban, a free piece of computer software that doesn’t allow you to go on any gambling site, meaning that even if I had an urge I couldn’t act upon it.

I was taught about ‘urge surfing’, a technique that helps you visualise the urge as a wave – the aim is to ride it without trying to control it.

Most urges subside within 20 minutes, and in that time I would occupy my mind with something else, such as going for a walk or taking a bath.

At home one night, I finally found the strength to confess all to Will.

‘I have something to tell you but I don’t feel I can tell you to your face,’ I said, handing him a letter in which I explained it all.

I included everything, from the lies to the huge sums of money I’d borrowed and lost, and the feelings that had led to me becoming addicted.

Terrified, I turned my back to him while he read it. But he wrapped his arms around me, tears pouring down his cheeks, and whispered: ‘It’s OK, we’ll get through this together.’

It wasn’t easy. I’d betrayed his trust and he felt terribly hurt that I hadn’t confided in him. I’d wanted to tell him so many times but my thought process was always, ‘If I can just win big, then telling him won’t be so bad.’

The first few days were awkward but we kept talking, no matter how painful it was. On my therapist’s advice, Will took control of my bank accounts and finances, with all my salary being paid into his account.

Having to ask him for cash if I needed to buy deodorant or tampons was demeaning, but Jenny said that at this stage, if I had any money, I’d continue to gamble.

A week later, I called my parents and tearfully told them. Despite their shock, the first thing they said was ‘How can we help you, darling?’

Around a month into therapy, I began to feel lighter and more hopeful. Understanding my triggers was key. Though my addiction had been sparked by feelings of inadequacy while I was waitressing and living at home, I realised it had actually worsened after I started teaching.

Being in charge of 30 kids while coping with constant pressure from parents, Ofsted and senior leadership was overwhelming.

Rather than pour myself a glass of wine like many do, I’d reached for the gambling apps to unwind.

After the seven weeks, I felt confident in my ability to continue facing my demons, safe in the knowledge that I had somewhere to turn if need be.

In that first year I did log in to a gambling website a couple of times, but I reminded myself, ‘If I bet, I will lose’ and logged out again.

Gambling stripped me of my identity, self-esteem and confidence, and I still fear how others might react to finding out the truth. That’s why, two years on, I still haven’t told anyone else, including my two older brothers and my best friends.

Thankfully, though, Will and I are closer than ever. Ten months ago, he handed back control of my finances, which was a big milestone for both of us.

Now the greatest wins are being able to afford gifts for my loved ones – without relying on the spin of a roulette wheel.

• Annie Millward is a pseudonym. Names have been changed.

• As told to Sadie Nicholas.