Face The Truth

By Malcolm FTF

FTFnow.net

Disclaimer:

This article contains raw and unfiltered content, including depictions of addiction, suicidal thoughts, drug use, and trauma recovery. It is intended for mature audiences and those seeking truth in the journey of sobriety and healing. If you are sensitive to these topics or currently in crisis, please proceed with caution—and know you are not alone.

The old me is dead.

Not lost. Not asleep.

Dead.

Buried under relapse. Under pride. Under the weight of bottles and grams.

I killed him—because if I didn’t, he was going to kill me.

Face the truth.

Not the polished lie you rehearsed. Not the version your ego clings to.

I’m talking mirror-level truth.

That stings. That strips. That sets you free.

I can smell bullshit from a mile away—like a shark.

Because I was it.

Sold it. Lived it.

You can’t finesse someone who already lied to themselves for years.

This shit will humble you.

The last time I relapsed, I had a half ounce of powder.

Three days straight—nose raw, soul numb, heart pacing like it was trying to outrun the truth.

East Atlanta. Moreland Ave. Zone 6.

I was hot. Suicidal.

Ready to end it all.

I slid back to my grandparents’ house in Adamsville. Zone 4.

A place that had been silent since my grandfather passed.

It felt like a grave—and I was ready to join it.

I had my 9 millimeter in my lap. No note. No goodbye. Just pain.

I sat behind that house, one pull away from the end.

But something in me called my Uncle Hiram.

And God moved—because he answered.

He didn’t preach. He didn’t flinch.

He just came, took the gun, and acknowledged me.

He saw me when I couldn’t see myself.

Unc, if you’re reading this—thank you.

You helped bring me back from the edge.

Funny thing is—I still have that gun.

That same 9mm. But now? It’s clean. Serviced.

Fixed up by my boy Cody, a real one who believes in this mission.

It used to be the tool I was going to end my life with.

Now it’s a symbol of what I survived.

Since then, I’ve legally purchased three more firearms.

No more backdoor sales. No more heat on my name.

I used to sell illegal guns—now I’m educated on them.

I walk with clarity. Registered. Sober.

It feels good—damn good—to have a clean record and a clear conscience.

Trust the process.

Even when it’s ugly. Even when it’s quiet.

Even when it feels like nothing’s working.

Some days you’re just surviving cravings.

Some days you’re ghosting the old crowd.

Some days it’s just praying that tomorrow feels lighter.

If you relapse, it’s just gonna be you and your demons in there.

No crowd. No camera. Just regret and a loaded silence.

So if you’re clean today—protect that like your life depends on it.

Because it does.

Forgive yourself.

Not because you forgot what you did—

But because you remember…

And still chose to grow anyway.

You’re not your darkest moment.

You’re not your relapse.

You’re not what they whisper about.

You’re the one who got up.

You’re the one who faced it.

When I go out, ain’t no liquor gonna be in my cup.

Not because I can’t.

Because I don’t.

I toast with purpose now.

Not poison.

I can’t make you stop using.

But I can show you the way.

I can hand you the torch.

I can walk with you through the dark.

But you gotta walk it.

Recovery is personal.

But you ain’t gotta do it alone.

Free all those still locked up in addiction.

You ain’t forgotten.

You ain’t too far gone.

You ain’t unworthy.

We made it out.

Now we’re sending the rope back down.

I am the proof.

Not a theory. Not a maybe.

Not perfect—but present.

Not flawless—but free.

I am FTF PROOF.

Note from Malcolm FTF Proof:

I share my story to help others heal, not to glorify the pain. If this brought up anything heavy for you, talk to someone you trust or reach out for help. Healing starts with honesty—but it doesn’t end there.