A Letter to My Nine Mill

facethyfear
Sep 3
3 min read

⚠️ Disclaimer

This article contains descriptions of addiction, relapse, and suicidal thoughts. Reader discretion is advised. If you are struggling with addiction or thoughts of self-harm, please know you are not alone. Help is available — call the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 or the SAMHSA Helpline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357) for free, confidential support.

FTF Preface

At FaceThyFear (FTF) we tell the truth so healing can happen. This story is raw, uncut, and deeply personal — but that’s how recovery gets its power. If it reaches even one person, it’s worth every word.

November 15, 2022 — the night before Recovery Place

Dear Nine,

On November 15, I almost let you end my story. You sat heavy in my hand that night — cold steel, warm liquor still burning in my swollen liver, blood in my cough, shame in my chest. I’d been drinking sleeves of cheap vodka, blacking out for days at a time. My body was breaking down. My mind was gone. I had already relapsed hard, and depression had me pushing 250 pounds.

I put you in my mouth that night. I’d been there before, but this time I was serious. I wanted it over. I even thought about how the cops in Effingham might stop me before I could succeed. That’s how boxed in I felt — trapped between life, death, and the law.

But even then, a voice told me what it’s always told me: keep going.

I had been calling rehabs, getting denied left and right without insurance. Finally, Recovery Place answered. The next morning I got drunk just to calm the shakes, then walked into that lobby. I was drinking vodka mixed with Snapple while I waited. Even ran to the liquor store down the street twice before they called my name. That’s how far gone I was — sitting in treatment intake with liquor on my breath, praying for one last chance.

And somehow, I got it.

It’s been 1,021 days since that night. The number itself doesn’t mean much, but this November 17, I’ll pick up my three-year chip. That chip means more than you ever could, Nine. It means survival. It means I didn’t pull your trigger — I pulled the one that fired me into recovery.

I still keep you. I love guns. Always have. I was introduced in Boy Scouts, and guns were part of my life long before the streets, long before addiction. I’ve sold guns for cocaine money, I’ve had them stolen by exes, but today I own four pistols — legal, registered, mine. Down here in South Georgia, guns are part of the culture. Hunting, self-defense, pride. You’re still with me, Nine — but you’re not my master anymore. You’re my reminder.

I used to chase Snowbella (cocaine) and run back to Liqesha (alcohol). They nearly killed me. But today, I can say I don’t serve them anymore — I serve God, and I live to love.

I also have friends that want me to succeed, who forgave me for being an asshole when I was in my mess. I acknowledge my part in my actions, and I apologize to anyone I’ve hurt. I have to thank God, my family, and my friends for keeping me alive when I couldn’t see a reason to live.

Now it’s time for me to give back. I want to bring attention to addiction, mental health, and sexual crimes. I want to advocate for the betterment of the youth. And I hope this blog and website helps at least one person.

So here’s my message:

If you’ve got a gun in your mouth right now, pause. Breathe. Know this — if I can make it, you can too. I was broken, swollen, drunk, and alone. Now I’m sober, about to graduate college in the spring, working a better job in my career, and I’m getting married this November. I’ve got a loving cat, a car I take care of, and a brand that gives me purpose — FaceThyFear.

Life is amazing. You just have to give yourself a chance. Bet on yourself. You are not alone.

And reach out for help.

— Malcolm Pannell (FTF Proof, ZN.4)

Resources

If you or someone you know is struggling: