El

When my second born was little, she had personality coming out the yin-yang. We called her Yelly instead of Ellie because she was so loud. Her presence was unmistakable, her confidence was unmatched, and her energy could fill the whole room. She escaped from any crib, highchair or booster seat that tried to contain her. She was uncageable. Untameable, and we all watched her in awe.

Then, without my permission, she grew up. In her early tween years, she came out as gay, and Ellie switched to El. Our understanding of El’s sexuality and pronouns was simple and easy. There was nothing to understand. El was whatever she/he/they felt happiness as. For writing purposes and with permission, I’ll refer to El as she here. However, that’s not settled on.

What was hard to understand was what happened next. Quickly, El went from class clown to wallflower, From “turn down the volume” to “speak up,” and reluctance replaced her abundance. At school, she dealt with Bullying, berating, and embarrassment. I’m not sure if that started as El got weak. Or if El got weak because that started, It was like she was disappearing before our eyes. When I looked for confirmation my kid was still in there, she would meet me with empty, sad glances.

I found scars to prove what I already knew. My baby was hurting on the inside and out. And so I started suicide watch, one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. My hand would sweat as I held the doorknob to her room. After a deep breath, I’d push the door open and would feel both relief and anguish when seeing what looked like a puddle of what was once my happy kid on the other side of the door. I was losing her; I could feel it, making me feel more helpless than anything had before.

We got medicine and therapy and had lots of talks (by talks, I mean I talked, and El sat staring at her hand), but as she declined, I did, too. The more El needed me, the more I needed something, the more I drank and, without knowing, became less of what El needed. An ominous feeling filled the house. It was like you could taste the anxiety in the air. Like the air somehow got thicker.

We both walked around buzzing with intensity while everyone else in the house tiptoed around us. There was me drowning myself in wine while El drowned in depression. We wanted to be there for each other, but El didn’t want to see her pain hurt me, and I didn’t want to show El how scared I was. So we kept protecting each other while sinking, together but apart.

As I let the situation swallow me, the cycle of drinking became a cyclone I couldn’t get out of. There was a panic attack pending behind every breath I took. Every time I’d check in with myself, I had to talk myself back down because the feeling rising from in me was unbearable. The drinks took it away for a while, allowing me to fall asleep at the very least. I felt like wine was the only thing holding me together, but I knew deep down the opposite was true.

I needed out, and so desperate and without faith, I started to consume sober culture morning, noon and night. Audiobooks, podcasts, and Instagram followings filled every moment of free time until I got to my day one. I want to say I quit to be the mom I needed to be for my teenager. But in truth, I could no longer breathe down where I ended up. I needed air, I needed clarity, and as much as I didn’t want to quit, I needed change with a desperation I’d never felt before.

I walked out of this quitting battle a different me and walked into that teenager’s room wearing the wounds of that on the outside. I walked in soft, brave and vulnerable. She didn’t want to talk as always and retracted at the site of my tears. So, like a protester chained to a tree, I sat. I refused to leave until she opened up.

It turns out El didn’t need a perfect mom. El needed a real mom. Showing up sober allowed her to feel safe, and showing up broken allowed her to break, spilling her pain onto me.

That day, we cried for hours. We talked about death, life, and, most importantly, help. On day 14 of my sobriety, we walked into the ER together, El as someone open to change and me there in a way I couldn’t be before. We sat in that waiting room for 7 1/2 hours and discussed truths about alcohol, drugs, the patriarchy, bigotry, government and social status. I talked, and El listened, and El talked, and I listened, neither of us preoccupied with our self-hatred.

My kid needed empathy, not sympathy, and I couldn’t empathize while numbing all the time. I need to let myself feel.

It’s not that El couldn’t lean on me when I was drinking. It's that they didn't.

It’s not till we’re strong that we can admit how fragile we are.