A Different Child
My full first name is Sai Ramya Harshini. There is a story behind it.
I was named Sai Ramya by my father, and most of the people who knew me as a child called me Ramya.
As a child, I was navigating various forms of abuse at home, at school, and in my community.
I was lonely, and most of all, I was different.
I now know that I was a neurodivergent child with high-resolution processing, which meant what I was living in was a constant state of distress and fear.
I was labeled a ‘sad child’, I was punished for needing too much,
and constantly communicated that I was burdening everyone around me.
I carried that realization since I was 6 years old.
I would harm myself because I did not know how to let out the pain I was in, knowing I had no other outlet.
I remember walking home after banging my head on a wall after someone bullied me and left with a severe pain in my chest from wanting to sob.
By the time I came home, I would have a bump on my head or a scar on my face, and I remember walking inside and hearing,
“There she is again with a bump on her head.
This girl makes life difficult. Oh my god, this girl!”
And I would keep walking inside, drop off my bag, walk outside again, curl up on the corner of the wall outside, and pray that I wouldn’t be alive so that I wouldn’t add pain to others.
I learnt very young that my presence was a burden.
I started pretending I was happy, not all the time but mostly. I remember when my dad abandoned us when I was 8 and my mom was more frustrated with everything, my sadness became the topic of discussion in every interaction with others.
I remember my mom started a small summer group for kids in a neighboring town, and we would go in the morning and come back in the evening.
When we were there, my mom was working with a few people in the complex, and I was sitting on the side while she got different ideas to try with me.
One of them was, according to this person who was doing numerology, changing my name because my current one was not matched with my birth numbers. My mom liked this one particularly well as she wanted to leave behind remnants of my dad, and she decided on Harshini.
I was 9 at the time.
I very vividly remember this moment one day after she decided she was going to change my name. We were walking back home after the group, and there was a lot of traffic around.
She was talking to me about how the name change was going to change our lives, and what I especially remember is that we were walking past a van on the street when she said,
“You’ll be a happy child.”
That moment stuck with me.
I had this realization as I heard her continue talking:
that the only thing that would make her happy is if I was happy, even if my happiness wasn’t real. I just needed to not be a sad child.
I remember making a decision that day that I’ll just be happy all the time. No one needed to know what I was experiencing inside, because when they saw my experience, I would become a burden.
That was the birth of Harshini, a happy child.
By the time my mom decided to make it official, I was stepping into seventh grade (turning 10 years old; I was 2–3 years younger than my peers).
Back then, seventh grade was a milestone year that had a public test system. When my mom reached out to the school to change my name, they had already sent my record in, so to make it easier for the records, they appended Harshini to my name
Officially named Sai Ramya Harshini, but people would call me Harshini.
Harshini meant happiness, that’s what my mom told me.
After a few months of changing my name and calling me Harshini, I remember we were walking back from somewhere and she said,
“You’re such a different child now, the name change really made a difference.”
I remember responding inward, “uh-huh,” with a nod while I said nothing outside.
When I started talking about my experiences in the past couple of years, finally naming things I had experienced but pretended my way through, I kept hearing,
“You had a good life, you were so happy, we just want to see you happy again.”
Now, when I hear someone tell me they want me to be happy like I was happy before my diagnosis of PTSD at the age of 24, I tell them that:
I never want to be happy like I was before. I want to be me, even if that is showing distress or pain.
Because I am only me when I can be myself.
I can only be myself when I am safe and feel safe to be myself.
That is a life I’m building for myself and for everyone around me.
A life where being you is enough.
A life that meets you where you are, as you are.
Themes Explored: Identity, Safety, Belonging