Some people don’t want to call themselves alcoholics. I honestly don’t care. If you don’t want to use that word, fine. But don’t tell me I’m wrong for calling myself one.

You want to say you’re cured? That’s your business. Just don’t get mad at me for disagreeing. I’m not mad at you for what you believe, but I will tell you what I believe to be true.

I believe this is an incurable affliction. It waits. It sits quietly. It watches for an opening. Whether you like that language or not, that has been my experience.

It also messes with our heads. That’s part of the danger. You start telling yourself you’re fully recovered, that you’re different now, that you no longer need to protect yourself. The person with years may say that and survive it. The person with six months hears it and thinks, “Me too.” Then next thing you know, they’re out the door because their head told them they were cured before they had enough time or strength to protect themselves from a disease that is subtle, patient, and brutal.

Being called an alcoholic doesn’t bother me. I understand why it bothers some people. It carries a negative connotation. Same thing with the word addict. People really don’t like that one either.

But let’s be honest. A whole lot of people are addicted to something. Nicotine, caffeine, alcohol, approval, attention, gambling, shopping, porn, food, work, chaos. Human beings love finding ways to take the edge off.

Me? I’m addicted to anything that feels good. I’m a feel-good freak. That much I know for sure.

The shame is gone for me. Maybe that comes with time. Maybe it comes with age. Maybe it comes from almost dying and then getting a second chance at life I never thought I’d have.

I want people to be happy, but I know happiness takes more than just getting up, going to work, coming home, having dinner, playing with the kids, and being nice to your spouse. For me, it took a lot of soul-searching to get where I am.

I’m happy. I’m not satisfied. There’s a big difference between the two.

My first two years of sobriety were packed with AA. I went to a meeting every day. On weekends, sometimes two or three. I was 21 years old, lost, and had no idea what to do with myself.

I got lucky. A whole wave of people came in around the same time I did. Most of them were a few years older than me, some more, but very few were my age. I was probably the youngest one around.

We did everything together. We picked each other up for meetings. We had the meeting before the meeting and the meeting after the meeting. Then we went to the diner every night for burgers, coffee, and cake.

My buddy Tim, may he rest in peace, used to say it all the time: “Let’s eat cake.”

Tim had just gotten out of jail for his third or fourth DWI when I met him. He couldn’t drive, so I picked him up for meetings almost every day. One night at the Massapequa Park meeting, he raised his hand and said he needed a ride because he couldn’t drive. After the meeting I went over and told him I’d gladly pick him up.

We became best friends.

We were each other’s best man at our weddings. We watched each other become fathers. We built years of friendship and sobriety together.

Then he decided to drink again.

A few years ago, he was found alone in his apartment, hundreds of miles away from his family. His daughter found him. He had been there for eight days.

So as much as I would like to believe I’m safe from this illness, I’m not. Never will be. That’s just the truth as I see it.

I’m grateful to be an alcoholic, and I know that probably sounds strange to some people. But I am. Calling it what it is helped save my life.

I don’t care about the negative connotations anymore. Everybody can think what they want. The people in my life know who I am. My kids have never seen me drink. My grandkids have never seen me drink. And by the grace of God, one day at a time, I plan to keep it that way.

Keep it simple and keep coming back.