The necessity of self-assurance and acknowledgements
It’s application season already, and as I contemplate what institution I hope to sell my soul to (with only three months of proposed security), I can’t help but reflect. I already have a bad habit of thinking about the past too often, but I’m trying to approach it more graciously.
The GRAMMY nominations were announced Nov. 15, and it’s made me think a lot about acknowledgments and their power and precedence. They are my favorite part of every book I read and though the awards given off-screen tend to be diminished, I want to honor the sentiment.
My time at this institution is also wrapping up pretty soon, and it is safe to say that a lot of bad shit has happened over these past three and a half years.
There was the coronavirus pandemic where, for some reason, I was in school full-time and worked close to 20 hours a week while mask mandates and social distancing were still in place. If you read my second installation of this column, you know about that one night, but it didn’t really hit until I began seeing him on campus again once we returned. This has recently resulted in a post-traumatic stress disorder diagnosis along with three others.
To sum a lot of it up, I have a hard time trusting and an even harder time feeling gratitude at times, especially in relation to this institution.
But there are a few things and more than a few people that allow me to see college in the right light.
My wonderful housemates who have withstood the test of being my friend and have warmly taught me about queer love along with the incredibly bright students who inspire creation — they tether me to this world when I float away.
The music industry program in the Thornton School of Music, coupled with the ranging talent that is discovered in Los Angeles supported by (what I consider to be notorious) good weather makes University Park a breeding ground for innovation in music. I’ve had the privilege of speaking to a lot of these up-and-coming key players. I may not know a lot about what’s to come in the years post-graduation, but I do know I am ready to continue to witness them all. I trust that.
For the dudes at 29th Street who trusted me with their story when I was starting out, to the homie Shawn from the Bay Area who started Cup of Troy, to Amanda and Shea who put on the women in jazz Bebop ‘n’ Blues show earlier this year — which was my favorite student production I’ve been too — and so many more, I am eternally grateful.
Kicking around gravel in the backyards of these historically preserved houses around campus listening to live music, with the California sunset as the backdrop, is something I am confident to be unparalleled anywhere else. It’s hard to recognize the intricate beauty of something when you’re up close and personal with it. But these are the memories I’m already clinging on to.
Los Angeles is home to over 400 concert venues, and I have maybe gone to only two hands worth, but the moments are innumerable. Taking molly while seeing KAYTRANADA on Halloween at the Shrine and going to the Hollywood Bowl for the first time to see an artist I don’t even listen to are some of the fondest.
I’ve never felt tied to this campus. Most of the time, I feel like I am not supposed to be here. But I have to give credit where it’s due, and I suppose this University has (though I still maintain only tangentially) fostered environments where I have become self-assured.
It was also during my time at USC that I started therapy — for a multitude of reasons — and started using drugs for something more important than recreation.
SSRIs are, to my frustration, spoken about in more hushed tones than the tales of drunk nights and promiscuous sex. More so than coming into my sexuality or trying to figure out why I’m so scared of commitment, my process of getting accurate diagnoses has been one of the most difficult things for me to figure out and definitely the most intimate.
I’m not great at doing things without some guidance and guard rails and I’m trying to get more comfortable with looking at myself in the mirror, but I will always choose my hearing over my sight.
I’ve thought a lot about the ironic and unfortunate dichotomy of focusing on myself and my mental health while gearing up to enter the world as a practicing journalist.
They tell you in j-school that journalists should be mere, objective and unobstructive. We learn not only how to do our profession, but to be our profession. We abandon our personal identities for the sake of a story — and there’s always a story.
Finding yourself takes serious time — way more time than a journalist is allowed — and it doesn’t help when mental health professionals themselves try to rush the process all the more. “wondering/wandering” by Kehlani in particular has kept me at ease in the meantime.
Anxiety and depression disorders are highly identifiable, more commonly diagnosed by psychiatrists and are the most frequently discussed and understood throughout mental health discourse.
Because these disorders are proximal to feelings of nervousness and sadness, they are understood within an able-bodied understanding of existence. But once a diagnosis becomes non-normative, the more ostracized a person can feel despite the plentiful emails about mental health support and “wellness” directors we’re supposed to believe in.
That’s where the music saves us.
With a personality disorder, maybe I’m the most equipped to throw myself into a world where it’s all for the sake of other people. It is this exact sentiment that I am trying so desperately to avoid, though.
My relationships with others, to whatever degree those are maintained and practiced, are what help me come into my relationship with myself. But when those relationships are forged for the sake of a word count or headline, I become lost.
The backyards I’ve found myself in are my guardrails. As are the hangovers, as are the simultaneous orgasms, as is this column. I’ve found that I’m actually the best journalist I can be when I throw myself into it all.
My shaky sense of self is more volatile than the stock market and oftentimes misrepresents me worse than Billboard charts, but with the help of others and my guardrails, I do trust I will figure out who I am.
In honor of Thanksgiving coming up and this being my last column of the semester, I want to thank you for reading. I hope I can squeeze in acknowledgements in all of the work I will do. It deserves it. You all deserve it.
Ana Mata is a senior writing about everything related to promiscuity and playlists.