They Never Gave Me the Tools—But I’m Still Building

By Malcolm Pannell | FaceThyFear Mental Health

I wasn’t handed the blueprint.

I didn’t grow up with deep conversations or emotional guidance.

What I learned, I learned by watching people survive in silence.

What I felt, I kept to myself.

But now I’m here—doing the work.

Still building something better out of what was broken before me.

My parents divorced before I was old enough to remember them being together.

That separation shaped a lot of things early.

There were no co-parenting talks, no explanations—just distance and me learning to adapt.

My mother worked hard. She was dedicated to her career and provided what she could.

But emotionally, I often felt like I was on my own.

She had responsibilities and a household to maintain, and I understand that now.

But as a child, I craved more than structure—I craved connection.

My father has always meant a lot to me.

Growing up, I saw him most weekends—up until about middle school.

We had a bond, and I cherished those visits. But when he had to move back to New Jersey, everything changed.

He wasn’t just out of the house—he was out of reach.

And as I started growing into manhood, that distance felt bigger than geography.

I didn’t have the consistent presence of a father helping me navigate life, emotions, or identity.

And by the time I truly needed those conversations most, the silence had already settled in.

So I pieced things together as best I could.

I played alone. Got lost in books.

Taught myself how to shrink my needs and stretch my silence.

And when the weight got too heavy to carry, I turned to substances—not because I wanted to rebel, but because I didn’t know how else to cope.

Addiction, for me, wasn’t about escape—it was about survival.

It was about not knowing how to process everything I felt and never feeling equipped to face it.

When I got sober, everything I had pushed down came back.

The grief. The loneliness. The questions.

And I realized I wasn’t just recovering from the substances—I was recovering from years of emotional neglect, confusion, and silence.

Even now, I still feel it.

I’ve worked hard to build a life in Savannah—going to school, holding down a job, staying clean.

But the scars still whisper sometimes.

There are days I feel lost.

Days I feel like I’m learning everything too late.

Days I look around and wonder why love—real, consistent love—feels like such a rare thing.

And part of what makes all of this so hard… is that I can’t afford to fail.

Everything I’m doing—at work, in school, in recovery—is riding on my success.

There’s no fallback plan. No room for collapse.

And while I know I’m doing the right things, it doesn’t change the pressure that sits in my chest every single day.

I’m doing new things. Learning on the fly. Facing challenges I’ve never had to face before.

And I don’t always feel like I know what I’m doing.

I’m figuring out life while trying to rewrite it—and that’s exhausting.

There are moments I wish I could lean on someone.

But I don’t want to burden my girl.

I love her too much to put all of this weight on her shoulders.

And I know I’m supposed to be strong.

But what nobody talks about is what happens when being strong becomes a prison.

What happens when being “the one who made it out” turns into being the one who can’t fall apart?

The one who can’t have an off day?

The one who has to keep performing because everyone is watching—even when no one is truly helping?

I’ve seen how some people only want to “show up” when it’s convenient—when it looks good or when it benefits their image.

There are people who haven’t shown up for me consistently, yet still want to be present for moments that appear meaningful.

That kind of performance doesn’t sit right with me anymore.

Love without consistency isn’t love—it’s self-interest.

That’s why I’ve had to set boundaries.

Because I can’t keep chasing surface-level connection while I’m working so hard to build something real.

Peace costs too much to keep compromising it.

This isn’t me bashing anyone.

This is me being honest about what shaped me—and why I’m choosing to change it.

I’m not here to repeat the cycle.

I’m here to break it.

I want to raise a family one day with love, structure, and presence.

I want to be emotionally available.

I want to give what I didn’t always receive—not to spite the past, but to free the future.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve felt the same—

Raised by silence.

Confused by love.

Held down by expectations that came with no instruction manual—

Just know:

You’re not alone.

You’re not weak.

And you don’t have to carry it forever.

They may not have given us the tools.

But we can still build something better.

FaceThyFear: From Darkness to Light

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Email: facethyfear@gmail.com

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