Be Properly Terrified of Your Disease

Why I still need to hear the message of alcoholism after years of sobriety.

There is a phrase I hear in Alcoholics Anonymous that has become essential to my recovery:

"Be properly terrified of your disease."

At first, that sounded extreme.

Today, I understand exactly what it means.

My disease is patient. It is powerful. It is cunning, baffling, and insidious. It doesn't usually show up screaming. It whispers.

"Maybe you're different."

"Maybe it wasn't that bad."

"You weren't as mangled as some of those people."

"Maybe you could have just one."

That is the voice I must never forget.

The truth is, I didn't come into recovery at what many people would call "rock bottom." I wasn't living under a bridge. I hadn't lost everything. I could still function in many areas of my life.

And that's exactly what makes my disease so dangerous.

My alcoholic mind loves to compare. It wants me to believe that because someone else's story was more dramatic than mine, maybe I don't really have alcoholism. Maybe I was just a heavy drinker. Maybe one glass of wine would be fine.

But alcoholism doesn't measure itself by how far you fell.

It measures itself by what happens after the first drink.

For me, once I put alcohol into my body, something changes. I don't know when I'll stop. I don't know where it will lead. I only know that history has already answered that question.

That's why I go to meetings.

I don't go because life is falling apart today.

I go because I never want it to.

I don't go looking for motivational speeches or to hear how perfect everyone's life has become. Those stories have their place, and I celebrate the miracles recovery brings.

But what keeps me sober are the meetings with depth and weight.

I need to hear the newcomer who is losing everything.

I need to hear the member who relapsed after years of sobriety.

I need to hear the painful truth about this disease.

Not because I enjoy suffering.

Because I need my medicine.

Every meeting reminds me what alcohol really does. It reminds me where my thinking will eventually take me if I stop treating my alcoholism. It keeps me thoroughly convinced that I have this disease—not just intellectually, but deep in my soul.

There are days when a drink sounds like a good idea.

Those are not the days to stay home.

Those are the days I need a meeting the most.

Sometimes one meeting isn't enough.

Sometimes I need two.

Sometimes I need three.

The Big Book tells us that we have a daily reprieve contingent on the maintenance of our spiritual condition. I don't receive sobriety for yesterday, and I can't borrow it from tomorrow.

I receive it today.

One day at a time.

One meeting at a time.

One reminder at a time.

Being properly terrified doesn't mean living in fear.

It means living in truth.

It means respecting the power of a disease that never takes a day off.

It means remembering that the moment I believe I'm no longer alcoholic is the moment I become the most vulnerable.

Today, I choose humility over denial.

I choose truth over comparison.

I choose meetings over isolation.

And I choose to remain properly reminded of my disease so that, by God's grace, I can receive my daily reprieve and stay sober—just for today.

— Michelle Ann | The Healing Cheff 🌸