From Traps to Tranquility: A Recovery Walk in West Savannah

FaceThyFear presents:

From Traps to Tranquility:

A Recovery Walk in West Savannah

By Malcolm Pannell

www.FaceThyFear.com | FTFnow.net | @facethyfear

What It Was Like

I was a Blood in the Cascade and West End area.

Zone 4. SWATS. That was home. That was pride. That was pressure.

My grandma’s from Adamsville—those roots live in me.

They’re tattooed on my skin, etched like scripture.

I didn’t just rep the hood—I wore it.

SWATS.404. 678. 770. Skulls. Symbols of what I survived and what I carried.

Some of it was grief. Some of it was pride.

Every mark is a story—some I’ve shared, some I haven’t.

I did things I haven’t told most people.

Some I did high. Some I did sober.

I’ve told my sponsors. But not everything deserves to be spoken. Some pain just teaches.

I was caught in a vicious cycle of false acceptance—begging for love, validation, approval.

Trying to impress people who wouldn’t cry at my funeral.

I missed out on music, on passion, on purpose—because I was always too high to show up.

I was in a relationship I never felt comfortable in.

She was recently separated when we met.

But I was trying to build a family on a foundation of fear.

I snored from being out of shape.

I drank. I said offensive things in front of the kids.

I taught them how to drive—with whiskey on my breath.

I wanted to be their father, but the truth is—they weren’t mine, and that wasn’t my role.

I remember riding MARTA late at night, killing beers on the train.

I remember heading downtown, buying drugs in the open from whoever looked like they had it.

I sold weed by the pound. I had other stuff too—stuff I couldn’t even manage right.

I drove with no insurance, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a cooler of Coke and ice in the back.

One night, I crashed Scotty—my Honda Element—into a ditch.

I was doing a line, smoking a blunt, sipping a whiskey cocktail, and the only thing I cared about was did I spill my cocaine?

The trap felt like power—sticks with lasers, bricks on the table, women treated like property.

“Wanna smash?” they’d ask, like passing a blunt.

It felt like control. But it was actually a cage.

I used to mix LSD, coke, weed, and liquor—like I was trying to break the laws of nature and survive it.

And somehow, I did.

What Happened

Before the real crash, I went to rehab in Miami for cocaine.

That was my first surrender.

I was nervous, paranoid, cracked open. I was ready to try. And for a while, it helped.

But I wasn’t done yet.

Back home, alcohol took over. That was my fallback demon. The one I thought I could control.

I spiraled again—quietly this time.

Then came Murphysboro, Tennessee.

I was working the canning line at Iron Heart Canning, bottling up a cocktail batch for a customer.

And then my body gave out.

I was admitted to the hospital for five days—no visitors.

Liver failure. Jaundice. Bleeding in my stomach lining.

I collapsed.

I shitted on myself and the floor.

I couldn’t walk when I got out. My body didn’t feel like mine. My dignity was gone.

That wasn’t just a scare. That was a shutdown.

God stopped me. My body tapped out before I could kill it.

From there, I flew to Savannah, Georgia for rehab again—this time for alcohol.

This time, I let go.

I started telling the truth.

Stopped trying to act like I was hard.

Started praying again. Started listening.

That’s when FaceThyFear was born.

Not as a brand—but as a lifeline.

As a spiritual declaration that I wasn’t going back to who I used to be.

That I wasn’t going to lie about the war anymore.

What It’s Like Now

It’s 70 degrees in West Savannah.

The air is calm. The birds are singing.

Soul music is playing from a porch down the block.

I just walked to the store and spent eight dollars on candy—King Henry’s fruit chews.

That used to be change I begged for, lied for, or scraped off the floor for a bottle.

Now it’s peace in my pocket.

I walk back home on a freshly paved street.

Above me, a pair of Nike Airs hang on the wire—like ghosts from the past just swaying in the breeze.

My porch light is on.

Hanging from it is a Hamsa hand pendant—a symbol of divine protection.

That light doesn’t just shine on my door. It shines on my redemption.

My Atlantic HVAC van is parked in the driveway next to Scotty, my 2004 Honda Element.

My red grill, gifted from my father, sits beside a pallet of Kentucky Wonder beans.

Around it, I’ve got a garden growing—sweet basil, French lavender, peppermint, cilantro, chocolate beauty bell peppers, and yellow dahlias blooming through concrete.

Every plant is proof I can nurture now.

Inside, it smells like lemon and lime oil from my diffuser.

My cat is curled up on the couch—calm, safe, unbothered.

My jewelry box holds FTF chains, silver rings, and recovery chips.

My weights are stacked, and a poster that says “FaceThyFear” is sitting right on top.

My closet is full of FTF gear—more than clothes. It’s armor.

The TV is playing a documentary about the wreck of the Glenesslin—an old ship run aground and lost.

I’m not that wreck anymore.

My girl’s on her way home from work.

She’s bringing us sandwiches she made from the deli at Publix.

Nobody ever made me a sandwich that tasted like care before she did.

The Stats

• 880 days sober from alcohol

• 1,048 days clean from cocaine

• Multiple HVAC certifications from Savannah Tech

• Currently chasing my degree

What It Means

I still Face My Fear—every single day.

But now I do it with:

• A porch light glowing

• A garden growing

• A van in the driveway

• And my name clean in my own mouth

FaceThyFear | Built From the Bottom

This is more than a brand—it’s a war cry, a lifestyle, and a living testimony.

Recovery is possible. Growth is real. Pain doesn’t win unless you let it.

www.FaceThyFear.com | FTFnow.net | @facethyfear