I was twenty-two, living in Queens, working long hours at a publishing internship in Midtown that barely paid enough to cover my MetroCard. My boyfriend at the time—let’s call him M—lived in Brooklyn. He was charming, unpredictable, and always full of stories about hitting it big. I used to think he had a hustler’s spirit. Turns out, he just had a gambling addiction.
I didn’t catch on at first. He’d suggest we hop a late-night LIRR train to Atlantic City “just for fun.” We’d split a cheap room at Bally’s, and I’d sit on the edge of a stool at the slots while he disappeared into the blackjack tables for hours. I’d pretend I was having fun too, but mostly I just stared at the digital numbers and waited for him to come back—usually broke, wired, and talking about how close he’d been to winning.
The first time he asked to borrow money, it was $120. He said his card got flagged, and we were on our way to meet friends in the Village. I spotted him. No big deal. But it didn’t stop there. There was always some excuse: overdraft limits, waiting on a client payment, needing to “flip” $200 into $2,000 at Resorts World in Queens. I started spotting him for everything—meals, Ubers, even his share of rent when he’d crash at my place for days at a time.
I was scraping by on $15 salads and dollar pizza slices. Meanwhile, he was blowing hundreds at poker games in basements near Brighton Beach, calling it “just part of the grind.” Once, I gave him $400—money I’d been saving to buy a winter coat—because he swore he could triple it in one night. He lost it in under an hour. I wore the same ratty coat all winter.
The turning point came on a freezing Tuesday night. I’d just gotten off a late shift and stepped into a packed 6 train at 33rd Street. My phone buzzed: “Emergency. Need $300 ASAP. Can’t explain. Please.” I stared at the message while pressed against a stranger’s puffer jacket, realizing I had less than $20 in my account, an empty fridge at home, and nothing left to give. That night, I cried into a bodega sandwich in my cold apartment and knew I was done.
Getting out wasn’t easy. There were guilt trips, long texts, love bombing. He told me I “gave up on him.” But what I gave up on was believing that his potential would ever outweigh the reality of what his choices were doing to me.
I stopped lending. I stopped answering late-night calls. I started saying no. Slowly, I got my finances in order—opened a new bank account, tracked every dollar, and made a plan to pay off the credit card debt I’d racked up trying to keep him afloat.
What I Learned in This City That Never Sleeps
- In New York, it’s easy to confuse chaos with ambition. I thought I was dating someone scrappy, someone with hustle. But the truth is, hustle doesn’t ask you to go broke to prove your loyalty.
- Financial abuse doesn’t always come with bruises. Sometimes it comes with sweet talk, cash apps, and promises of “just one more chance.”
- Boundaries save you—especially in a city that will swallow you whole if you’re not careful.
Now, years later, I look back at that version of me with compassion. She didn’t know better. She thought love meant giving until it hurt. But she learned. And she got out. And now, when I walk down those same blocks near Union Square or pass the Port Authority bus terminal where we once hopped a Greyhound to AC, I’m reminded: I survived. I healed. And I’ll never gamble on someone else’s mess again.