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Abhijith Ravinutala

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Abhijith Ravinutala

Tag Archives: grief

Cracks in My Cell

02 Thursday Mar 2017

Posted by Abhijith Ravinutala in Personal

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Tags

doubt, emotion, grief, loss, mental health, parents, stress

“How are you doing?” people usually ask, whether or not they know I’ve lost family recently. I don’t answer these days. My external representative takes care of that – the face I put up for the world. He tells people “I’m doing alright”. The word choice is deliberate, it comes with a wild hope that someone will remember my usual answer of “I’m doing great!” and wonder what’s wrong. I need them to wonder because my true self isn’t able to speak out of this cell.

I’m in solitary confinement right now, my self sentenced here by Grief, who says I need to do time for losing my grandma. I tried to plead my case, I told Grief that it’s not what my grandma would want. I told Grief that I’m supposed to be strong right now for my mother’s sake, she has it a lot worse than I do. I told Grief that I have to be the positive one in the family. Don’t you get it? But Grief brought down his gavel devoid of justice and sentenced me to solitary. Loneliness and Doubt carried me with tied arms to my cell of hard grey stone – they opened the padlock door, threw me inside, and stood guard outside. I have a bed, a desk, two cloudy windows, a punching bag, a bathroom, and stone. Lots of grey, bleak, stone.

So I’ve been here for a while now, waiting for my release.

Some days are better than others. I write a lot at my desk since I’m alone; there aren’t as many distractions. There’s an elegance to the introspection. Some days, I work all day and at night my brain is tired and it just sleeps in peace. Other days though, when I go to sleep, the demons crawl out of the corners of the cell. They don’t say much but they show me things. Bad things. The way we waited every day in the hospital with dwindling hope, the sound of my family’s tears, the sight of my grandmother’s final moments. And always the absence of my grandma, they always show me that. It makes me toss and turn and not sleep. Something’s missing, I’m less loved than I was a few months ago. A rage boils within too. When I think about the hospital staff, the shouts of relatives at the chaotic funeral ceremony: rage. I go to my punching bag, I hit it hard. Thud. I’m not satisfied. Thud, thud, thud. Step, punch, step, hands up, jab, jab, rage. The bag just keeps coming back. One day I rage so deeply that I hit it straight out of its chains, just so I could feel like I had defeated something when everything else had me beaten.

There’s two small windows in my grey stone cell, on either side of the locked cell door. I look out for help every now and then on the right side window; I see friends. They’re… busy in their own lives. They’re working towards something important, or they’re a thousand miles away or, they just feel a thousand miles away. They can’t see me through the cell glass, and I don’t knock on the window – why aren’t I able to just knock? I go to the other window on the left side. I can see family in this one. I see a mother that’s lost her mother, a father who’s recently lost his brother, and another grandma who’s lost her son. They’re strong beyond belief, Grief couldn’t contain them to solitary like he did to me. They can’t see me through the cell glass, and I don’t knock on the window – how can I possibly ask these people for help when they’re dealing with so much more than I am? No, I usually walk away from the window instead. But the other day, just as I was walking away I see my Pop coming up to talk to my external representative as usual. My representative is supposed to handle this. He’s going to say that I’m alright but something falters, an error, a break in the system. There’s just tears and mumbling and Loneliness and Doubt step aside for once to let Pop into my cell for a visit.

He sits down with me on the bed and holds me gently on my back; I feel like I’m back on the playground swings and he’s going to push me and catch me. Under his comfort the floodgates are open: the demons came straight out of me this time. Pop, I don’t remember how to hope anymore. How do all these people have so much faith in the afterlife? Why isn’t anyone there for us? Do people really care about me? He senses the depth of the problem and he holds me a little tighter. Suddenly, we’re not in my grey prison anymore, we’re sitting on a park bench in the Dallas winter. The wind nips at my ears and gives a slant to the waterfall springing from my eyes.

My Pop speaks.

Son, there’s no proof I can give you that faith is rewarded in the afterlife. I just know we live a better life when we believe something.

There’s no explanation for why your hope for grandma wasn’t rewarded. I just know that we only get up each day because we continue to have hope.

There’s no way to tell you who truly cares about you and when. I just know you can never blame people, you can only set an example.

He pauses.

We’re transported back into my cell, sitting on the bed, but it doesn’t feel as bleak anymore. His words were churning in my head, then they went down and stopped my tears in their tracks, and continued down until they warmed my heart and made me feel full and gave strength to my legs and feeling to my feet. Then, he pulled something out of his pocket. He gave me an unbreakable nail; it was Faith. Out of the other pocket he pulled an iron hammer; it was Hope.

Pop said: When you’re ready. Your family will be there waiting to love you.

And then he got up, turned around, and walked out of the door. Loneliness and Doubt closed it again when he left. Then I got up, turned around and walked towards the other end of the grey stone wall. I put Faith up to the stone, I searched for a good spot and held it firm in place. I raised my Hope high, I felt my fingers grip the handle with purpose, and I struck hard.

Nothing.

I set Faith again, I raised my Hope and I struck even harder.

Crack. The wall was giving way. I struck and I struck and piece by piece the stone crumbled at my feet and I felt the stir of determination again. I pounded away, Hope and Faith becoming used to me and I to them again. When I was done I looked and saw a hole in the wall, the size of my face. The light of the colors that I missed danced through the gap in the grey stone into my cell, they painted the wall with small glimpses of Happiness: bright blues and fiery reds and playful yellows and greens. Content, and exhausted, I settled onto my bed, kept Faith and Hope under my pillow, and watched the colors dance as I went to sleep.

I’ve been here a while now, but I’m no longer waiting for my release. I’m going to break out soon enough.

Pesky Memories

13 Friday Jan 2017

Posted by Abhijith Ravinutala in Personal

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Tags

emotion, grief, mental health, stress

Do you ever have pesky memories? You know the ones I’m talking about.

The memories you try to keep in the maximum security prisons of your mind. The ones that come from experiences you don’t want to think about. Sometimes they slip past the guards, climb walls, dig tunnels, and get out right? Pesky memories – they’re annoying because they’re always trying to escape when your guard is down, when just for a second your mind wanders, it looks the other way. They slip out in the vulnerable moments: when you’re on a long drive through the countryside, or lying awake at night trying to fall asleep, or hugging someone for the 1,000th time who makes you feel safe. I get them when I’m on planes, when I’m left with nothing but music in my headphones and thoughts in my head. I can feel the locks turning in my mental prisons when we take off, the searchlight turning off in the prison yard, the excitement of all the escaped thoughts who want to run free. By the time we reach cruising altitude, my eyes are closed and the memories are wreaking havoc.

Maybe your pesky memories are like mine?

Maybe you remember the ones you’ve lost that left a mark on you. Do you think about having a cup of tea on the roof with your uncle, watching the sun set over grazing buffalo while he recounts his shipyard days? When I stand on my balcony now with chai, the memories make me wish he was still there to tell me stories. Surely, you think about playing video games and eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos with your best friend, the one that was taken too early? I remember him when I watch a movie that he would like, when someone mispronounces my name in some way that would’ve made him laugh. Or,

Maybe you remember the land you left behind when you immigrated. Do you think about those moments at the train station, when you roll away from the longing faces who wonder when you’ll be back? They come to mind at the end of every Indian meal, every road with too much honking. You at least remember the nights spent next to your grandparents right, talking about their hopes and dreams for you? I think about those in the quiet moments after a shower when I wonder whether I’m a good person. Or,

Maybe you remember the relationships you left behind. Do you think about the first awkward kiss you had on campus? What about driving away from someone you love, struggling to see the steering wheel through your tears? Some nights when the apartment feels particularly lonely, and I’m staring at the microwave heat something, those memories get out. They always require 15 minutes of wrestling back into their prison cells so they don’t become overwhelming. 15 minutes of telling myself that things happen for a reason. Some memories don’t deserve the light of day. Or,

Maybe you remember all the instances of unrequited love. Do you remember when someone told you they couldn’t love you, but you couldn’t get the damn possibility out of your head? I bet it comes to mind when you hug that person a second too long or listen to just the right Ed Sheeran song. You probably have the pesky memories of all the times you could’ve told someone the way you felt? Maybe even after you said something it didn’t work out anyway. So then there’s just a lot of what ifs swirling around in your head along with the memories. And what ifs are tricky, because they’re hopeful and colorful and seemingly innocent but trust me they belong in your mental prisons too. Or,

Maybe you remember the times you could’ve been better. Do you think about the words you said that caused pain? I guess you wonder why you never called back that friend, the one you loved getting fro-yo with. I think about those words when I lay in the grass with my best friend and look at the clouds. I get those memories when I’m scrolling through my phonebook wondering why I haven’t talked to all these people in so long. Well,

Hopefully when you think about all of that, you realize those pesky memories were born from the moments that made you, like they made me. You know, it’s those moments that built your character, taught you to be better, love more openly, and thank more often. But the memories of those moments don’t allow you peace of mind. The memories are still of mistakes, lapses, sadness, and they belong in the prisons of your mind. It just takes an occasional prison break to remind you why those thoughts deserved a cell in the first place.

So, do you ever have pesky memories? You know the ones I’m talking about.

An Undelivered Eulogy

10 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by Abhijith Ravinutala in Personal

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

friend, friendship, grief, loss, love, mental health, South Asian Experience

In September, I learned that my best friend from childhood passed away while in India. Writing about this has helped me understand and internalize it. The post below is what I would say if I had the chance to speak at my friend’s funeral. 

Harish was my best friend. He was my best friend in that loyal, dedicated way in which children without siblings make best friends. We immigrated to the US in the same year, lived in the same crappy apartment complex and watched our parents struggle for the same American dream. It was only natural for us to come together.

It was Harish who showed me Pokemon for the first time, effectively guaranteeing that my brain would think of nothing else for the next few years. We would find ourselves rushing home from elementary school, making it to his home just in time to see Ash win another battle.

It was Harish who showed me how to roller-skate, to zip through our apartment complex making friends with the other tenants. We did our best to emulate the scenes from our favorite video games, assigning each other secret agent numbers and playing advanced hide-and-seek. We’d go to the temple with our families, and Harish would teach me the art of passing temple time. Of course, temple time passes much slower than any other time you spend waiting for your parents, like Dillard’s time and Home Depot time (just to give a few particularly boring examples). We grew up together in those days, and always closer, despite him being four years older than me in age.

As the years went by and we changed schools and addresses, we always kept in touch. I would look forward to the weekends when I could sleepover at Harish’s apartment, learning about cool video games, good movies, and bad words. My early taste in Quentin Tarantino movies and Weezer songs both came from Harish. Of course, our favorite pastime was going to CiCi’s Pizza for any special occasion or excuse that we could think of. I guess you could say we made sure to grow fat together, just as we grew up together.

Eventually, Harish moved on to college at UT Austin, the same year that I started high school. And for the first time, we were cities apart. Left on our own, we made new friends and grew busy, but I still looked up to Harish and hoped to follow in his footsteps to UT.

But in my junior year of high school, Harish first started showing signs of a confusion that would come to consume him. I remember the night too vividly when his parents called us in agony, dumbfounded by Harish’s behavior. He had come home from college for summer break and acted like a different person altogether. His grades had dropped and he suffered from the guilt and pressure that all Indian children know when it comes to academics. My parents brought him to our house and tried to set him straight. Harish eventually did pull himself together, and his parents, who had become like a second family to me, thanked us and took him back to Austin.

I would eventually join him there and restart our friendship during my freshman year at UT. It was time again to learn from Harish – this time about the best tofu places on campus, and where to find the free t-shirts.

Yet, Harish again showed signs of a deeper problem. Just before winter break of my sophomore year, I called Harish to ask for a ride home for the holidays. He agreed, but fabricated stories about my roommate and caused drama that drove a rift in our friendship. When I rode with Harish to Dallas for the 2010 winter break, it would be one of the last days I spent quality time with him.

At the time, I didn’t know he was fighting with mental illness. He would be diagnosed years later. Since that car ride, I’ve thought often about reconnecting with Harish. Whenever I saw his mother in Dallas, I would ask if I could meet him again. But when she went home and asked Harish, his answer was always no.

So, the days would pass by and I would move on in my life, graduating from UT Austin and starting my first job. Harish would end up moving out of his parents’ apartment, working intermittently, and finally moving to India for steady work earlier this year. It was in India that his life was taken on August 31st, but we learned of his death on September 7th. Just the night before, I had stayed up late catching up with my close friend about our times with Harish, and how we hoped to reconnect with him sometime soon.

I wonder what went through Harish’s head in the past few years. Maybe he had forgotten our times together, the laughs we shared and all that he had taught me. If that’s what his illness could do, then I hate it. I hate that Harish had to go through such an internal battle. I hate that he couldn’t be the jovial, brilliant kid I had always known. I hate that he died without being my friend again, without letting me share one more slice of pizza with him or lecturing me on his opinions about the latest internet craze.

So much of who I am today and the interests or passions that I have are a direct result of growing up with Harish. He taught me more than I can say about American culture, Indian families, and the world in general. In the coming years, I’ll be sure to remember him, the way he laughed and told stories and argued with his mom. I want to cherish the parents he left behind, and all the funny memories that still make me smile.

I hope that if you’re hearing this or reading this, you’ll remember your own best friends from childhood. Maybe you’ll recognize the impact they ‘ve had on you. And if you’re lucky enough to still be friends, I hope that you hug them a little tighter the next time.

Harish was my best friend. And he will always be my best friend. May he rest in peace.

Harish and I passing temple time

Harish and I passing temple time

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