A Midnight Craving, Cold and Redeemed

A Reflection from a Man Formerly Possessed by the Bottle (Now Just Addicted to Oreos)

By Malcolm Pannell

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“Crumbs are the cost of freedom.”

O brethren, let me speak plainly, for the truth needs no suit nor silk:

Last night, I tiptoed.

Not into sin. Not into shame. But into the kitchen.

I had just returned from the lavatory—God bless that porcelain peace—when I felt a call. Not from the bottle. But from the fridge.

And there she was: a sleeve of cold Oreos.

I moved like a man on a mission, loud as a clumsy outlaw but too far gone to turn back. I chuckled, barefoot on tile, fumbling through foil like it was treasure.

Years ago, I would’ve downed a beer at that hour. Maybe two. Maybe ten.

I’d have sat on the edge of the bed, soaked in regret and alcohol, waiting for the night to disappear into blackout.

Back then, my thoughts were loud and my peace was on mute.

I remember nights when my ex-lady would wake to the hiss of a fresh can cracking—crisp, cold, treacherous.

She’d fuss—“You drinkin’ again?”

And I’d lie, already halfway to oblivion, gripping the can like a man holding onto denial for dear life.

The recycling bin would fill like a damn altar of shame.

Crushed cans. Bent truth. The smell of hops and hopelessness.

But now?

Now she’s gone. And the bottles are too.

The only fuss I get these days is about crumbs.

“Malcolm… did you eat Oreos in the bed again?”

I grin.

Because if that’s what I’m guilty of these days—midnight snacking and soft laughter—I’ll take the conviction. I’ll serve the sentence.

This is recovery. Not just the big victories, but the little ones too.

A quiet mind. A soft laugh. A cold Oreo.

The night still comes, but I don’t fear it. I welcome it with stillness, not self-destruction.

If you’re reading this and you’re still stuck—still drinking, still hurting, still lying about the cans—hear me out:

You can change.

One night you’ll sneak to the fridge, not for pain, but for peace.

One night your worst crime will be cookie crumbs and laughter in the sheets.

And that, my friend, is what freedom tastes like.

Oreo-sweet. Icebox cold. And blessedly sober.

Amen.

This is the official cut. No milk, no fluff—just facts, flavor, and FTF redemption.

“One night you’ll sneak to the fridge, not for pain, but for peace.”

💬 Share Your Story

If you’ve ever had a moment like this—a quiet victory, a funny late-night memory, a step away from relapse and into real life—I want to hear it.

You can email your story to FaceThyFear@gmail.com.

You’re welcome to remain anonymous.

Just be real. Be honest. Be you.

Your story might just help someone else make it through the night.

FaceThyFear®

FTF™ | Real Recovery. Real Redemption. Real Stories.

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