There was a time in my life when I thought I might not be a "good reader." The tests, teachers, tutors, and educational specialists throughout my kindergarten and elementary school years made my parents aware that something was "not as it should be." Meanwhile, I had no clue what they were making such a fuss about. I could write and speak rather well for someone my age; I could understand sheet music, memorize things quickly, and performed regularly in theatre. But there always seemed to be a problem - a disconnect - when I my reading comprehension was "tested." After years of mentally breaking down in my classes, being labeled as "stubborn" by teachers in elementary and middle school, several mental health crises, and relentless bullying, I was diagnosed with severe Social Anxiety Disorder and Autism. Now, as I approach my final year of undergraduate studies, I like to consider myself a rather avaricious reader; my interests span genres, topics, authors, and languages. Receiving the proper diagnoses were fundamental to building my sense of self and creating an educational career path that suited me. In fact, these diagnoses have directly shaped a portion of my reading habits. Some of my favorite books to date include psychological and psychiatric textbooks; they have taught me the inner workings of my enigmatic - at times chaotic - brain, why I react to many things in the ways that I do, and how to go about my days in a manner that is conducive to my healthiest, most confident, most informed lifestyle. I also love fantasy, sci-fi, and dystopian novels. From 'The Hunger Games' series, I have learned the valiance and bravery in self sacrifice. During my late-night reads under the covers, this series inspired me to approach injustice with compassion, sincerity, and truth. Katniss, Haymitch, and Lucy Gray have provided me with insight into what it means to care fiercely for those I love, how to be selective with my attention and energy, and how to remain strong even after the hardest blows to my willpower. From the essay and poem collections of Langston Hughes, Audre Lorde, and Sylvia Plath, I have learned that my thoughts and words have power - that my outpouring emotions are anything but signs of weakness. These brilliant writers have taught me to call out inequities and use my unique perspective to bring about positive change for the world I inhabit. Their works embolden me each time I rediscover them; they remind me of the strength that lies in being passionate about life, about the things I love, and about the world I wish to see for myself and others. The cultural vibrancy, unapologetic authenticity, and visceral theatricality of Sandra Cisneros's 'The House on Mango Street' and 'Woman Hollering Creek' have empowered me as both a Mexican American woman and the daughter of immigrant parents. Her words highlight both the toxic elements of Mexican societal norms - such as male violence against women - while also uplifting the most treasured aspects of Mexican and Mexican American life - such as the passing down of knowledge between generations, the unbreakable friendships between cousins, and the power of self-discovery as one creates a better life for oneself. My goals in life are not that different than many of the protagonists and authors of my favorite books. I want nothing more than to explore the world; I want to bring more love, tolerance, knowledge, and equity to every inch of the world that I come into contact with, and I want to leave a legacy of honesty, wisdom, passion, and empathy.

Option C: Writing (Poetry) “The Mad Villain Thrives in My Mind” I have been told that roses grow best with blood; maybe I will too. Maybe the blood and tears for everything I love will help me more. Maybe I will be okay. After the smoke from the raging infernos in my mind clears. Maybe it’s okay that I’ve bled and cried more than I’ve loved and been loved. But I have also been told that In my words lay every kind of weapon: Blunt blows to the heart and Piercing daggers into the soul With marks everlasting on the minds of us all. Perhaps: We were born to mourn the friendships we once lived for; the same ones we thought we’d prayed and slaved for always seem to become the ones that never actually “ended” or made us feel bad. They just become fads - things that happened. But I look back on these events. They seem more and more frequent the longer I live. Am I defective? My devotion infected? My heart nothing but a sieve. My loyalty a mere fallback plan when they’re in need of compassion. I suppose I’m nothing if not a noble companion. But not to myself. Perhaps To none. In fact, I once told myself: “I want to live until 27.” A child So young, I knew nothing of the world. 21 I now stand against The World The World crushing me The World I created Crashing down - A house of cards I had No right, no idea How to play; I fear I will not see 27 Nor am I sure I wish to - Or - Perhaps I fear I will. These thoughts Conflict And Confuse As I continue to cry; Another safe place - Another home - Falls to the ground With me. I collapse with utter exhaustion Screaming at my mind, “Is this what failure feels like?” What burden can I blame? What name can I ascribe this Utter Sorrow That has taken hold of me So Very Completely? How long can one live in Grief Before they become Nothing More than a shell of what They one believed? Perhaps No answers Are known. Perhaps that is truly the Worst part - Not the false promises Or decimated heart that Aches in my chest. Perhaps the worst part Is me. Maybe. Maybe I love too quickly, Maybe I hurt too deeply, Maybe I take life too seriously. I know nothing of the world Still That has not changed. Each time I think I might have secured an Understanding, The last of my strength is Antagonized - The last of my Hope Is vandalized. Is nothing left? Is 21 my End? I wonder if Other ages will miss me; Does 27 await me - Open arms ready to welcome me: “You were destined for this.” I reply, “Oh, how I’ve prepared and longed For This.” Or, Will no one miss Me? I know Nothing, I expect Nothing. Not while I live and breathe... Oh, How I hold my teddy bear much tighter now; The monsters he protects me from are no longer under the bed The ones in my head have Overtaken and Overpowered All aspects of my life I’ve been called crazy by the closest of friends. But I’m not out of my mind - I just want out of it. Perhaps: The most human parts of us are what make us do the most monstrous things.

Being a liberal arts major is more than a degree pathway. It is a means of becoming a wiser, more informed, more empathetic, more creative, more resourceful, and a more open-minded person in a world that would rather us be complacent. Having a liberal arts education has been one of the greatest gifts in my life - as a student, as a theatre-maker, a critical thinker, and a compassionate human. I am a proud double major in English and Theatre Arts - the two fields that have saved my life time and time again. As someone who struggles with the stigmas and symptoms of both Bipolar Disorder and Autism, having a creative outlet in both writing and acting have been the greatest sources of joy and liberation. I am a proud Liberal Arts College student at Pomona College in Claremont, California. Since my first day of orientation, the potential and honor of a liberal arts education have been of extreme presence in my mind. The opportunities I have each semester - with each class - to gain insight from so many differing minds, majors, and perspectives are astounding. These personalities, worldviews, and ideologies have shaped my own outlook and approach to my craft. That said, the benefits of a liberal arts education to a student pursing a career in theatre are genuinely prolific and immeasurable. The liberal arts environment is one of immense exploration, discourse, research, and rigorous work. It teaches us as students to take responsibility for our education and professional as well personal development in this ever-changing world. I have been incredibly fortunate to meet a great deal many of fellow liberal arts majors, spanning from political science, history, psychology, and anthropology. I have been even more fortune to take classes in each of these respective fields as well. The concepts, students, and instructors I have encountered throughout this process have provided me with such a vast, rich understanding of this world - and of my own part in it as well as how I am to shape it moving forward. Pursuing a career in theatre is pursing a career in being human - in presenting the human condition to an audience in the hopes that it can resonate, inspire, and inform them. A liberal arts education provides us as theatre-makers with vital skills in developing our voice, searching for truth, understanding the nuance of history, finding reason and empathy, diving deeper into the human mind, and so much more. For me, being a liberal arts major and theatre-maker are so beautifully intertwined. They inform one another while feeding one's intellect and strengthening us as members of humanity.

It was simple. The second I heard “Stumbled over all my words, made it weird, then made it worse/Each day that I'm alive, it's social suicide” was the second I became a fan and massive admirer of Olivia Rodrigo’s vulnerability. I spent the majority of my middle school and high school years in an independent study program as a result of bullying and debilitating panic attacks. Remaining undiagnosed for Bipolar Disorder and Autism Spectrum Disorder for nearly a decade, that lyric got to the heart of my experiences - my all-consuming fear that I would never be understood or seen as a genuine person. My own brain felt like a battlefield that I could not navigate; my thoughts all just land mines that left me spiraling for hours on end. But this lyric. It came to me like a revelation. Finally, someone else had been able to put similar experiences of lonelinesses, questioning their worth, and self-loathing into words. Olivia’s music came to me during my community college years, and I will never forget how grateful - how validated - I felt on that sunny car ride home from class when I decided to play her album “guts” for the first time. I found myself listening to the album on repeat each and every day for several months afterwards. “ballad of a homeschooled girl” and “teenage dream” were my most frequented. Something about hearing another person voice their own anxieties about the future and overwhelming fear that things might not get better despite everyone in their lives saying “it gets better the more you grow” provided me with a sense of solace that nothing else at the time could. I have been struggling with mental illness for the majority of my life; hearing an artist express with such a platform express herself in that raw way made me feel like I was not alone in the battles of my brain and emotions. My respect for Olivia’s music has only grown since her last album. “I'm a zombie in my body/I'm a train off of the track/I feel dirty,/I feel rotten/And the colors are all flat/I'm a sad shell of a woman/And I've got maggots for brains” blew me away. The mental and emotional numbness, the hollow eyes, the awareness of something being severely wrong but having the energy to help myself; this is what I’ve been battling for years. Olivia’s music is not just an expression of emotion or creative outlet for her. It’s a series of stories and experiences - physical, mental, figurative, literal, and emotional - that so many people share. Her openness and compassion are beautiful, and the whole of her discography has given me so much comfort and catharsis.

Manuscripts of a Mental Mutiny: A Psychological Interpretation of Emily Dickinson's “I Felt a Funeral, in My Brain” The topics of mental health, mental illness, identity, and how one’s struggles with such manifest have grown immeasurably in popularity within the last several years. The field of literature, however, has a long history of mental health, sanity, identity-related themes being expressed and explored within the pieces produced by numerous writers. Reviewing texts and works of literature therefore with this specific analytic approach can be immensely fruitful, insightful, eye-opening, intriguing, and thought-provoking. Acclaimed poet Emily Dickinson’s vast breadth of work spans a myriad of topics, one of particular importance being her own mental health and inner struggles. Historians and literary scholars alike have concluded that Dickinson battled various mental demons throughout her life - potentially Chronic Depression, Social Anxiety Disorder, and/or Agoraphobia most specifically; in studying her life, there is evidence that “as a child, Emily was relatively social…However, in her late twenties, she began retreating from any and all social situations, as she grew increasingly reclusive…She was highly selective in choosing what people she would maintain relationships…[avoided] basic interactions…[and ignored] guests altogether…Dickinson’s retreat into herself and away from the world was a defense tactic” (Moss 4). Whether it be through analyzing her poems and diaries or accounts of her behavior from contemporaries in her company, similar conclusions have been drawn: Emily Dickinson battled problems of an inner, psyche-related nature and used her writing as a creative outlet - a form of escapism. It was how she could most effectively and comfortably make sense of the mental turmoil she experienced - by quite literally putting words to the emotions she felt. Emily Dickinson’s mournful “I Felt a Funeral, in My Brain” was written in the late 1800s and first published in the 1890s. It is quite possibly one of her most captivating, sorrowful pieces, depicting a rather ominous and grievous scene. In researching her life, one gains an understanding her own personal challenges with mental illness and instability; it is therefore quite plausible to interpret this piece as a representation of the inner pain Dickinson was experiencing in the later part of her life - a microcosmic depiction of her own mind and the struggle to recover both her senses of sanity and identity. The poem’s first stanza jarringly introduces a funeral scene to the reader. The frankness in which Dickinson approaches this first line can be rather uneasy, thus it serves as a fitting welcome into the workings of Dickinson’s mental state; it depicts the unnerving scene at hand - i.e. the anguish and chaos that is perpetually present in her mind. Dickinson not only utilizes the first person as she states that “I [she] felt a Funeral, in my [her] Brain” (Dickinson) but also personifies the locations of the events - the Funeral and Brain itself; in doing so, it is reasonable to conclude that the locales are alike in one respect - these are the loss and pain are being felt. Therefore, these two locations are crucial. In likening the Funeral to the Brain, it becomes increasingly clear that these two areas are where the natural stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance - must be undergone and managed. These stages and their progression are rather similar to the symptoms and cycles individuals with mental health conditions such as various forms of Depression, Mood Disorders, and Anxiety Disorders often experience (Paraphrased from National Institute of Mental Health). Thus, it can be further deduced that Dickinson’s funeral scene serves as a representation for her own mind and the cyclical challenges she experiences therein. The grief process - arguably uncomfortable and chaotic in its own right - is expanded upon within the remainder of this first stanza; Dickinson notes that “...Mourners to and fro/ Kept treading - treading - till it seemed/That Sense was breaking through -” (Dickinson). The personified “Sense” represents peace, resolution, and the final grief stage of acceptance. The scene depicted in these lines makes it appear that Dickinson fortunately experiences moments of clarity - that she is at times able to cope with her struggles and emotional burdens. This makes a great deal of sense, for in the natural world, the processing of one’s own grief after a significant loss is nonlinear; sorrow itself is not continuous, and there are indeed glimmers of hope, or at least moments that feel lighter and easier to manage than others. Thus, this first stanza encampasses that reality; that sorrow - whether it be due to the loss of a loved one, a loss of self, or general inner struggle - comes and goes in waves. Further likening the Funeral scene to her own psychological state, Dickinson continues describing the painful funeral experience in the first person and utilizing strategic moments of personification. In the third stanza, Dickinson refers to herself as “I” and states that she is almost utterly alone if it were not for the presence of a “Silence” and “some strange Race” (Dickinson). In this line, it is arguable that Dickinson is alluding to the sensation of feeling lonely despite not being physically alone. In essence, Dickinson makes it appear that she does not feel she fits in with society. Whether it be due to the aforementioned theory of Social Anxiety-related issues, other mental health struggles, a lack of connection with her peers, or other contributing factors, Dickinson feels that she walks alone in the vast world before her - condemned to live a life of solitude and lack of genuine camaraderie and companionship. She therefore chose to turn inward, conducting the remainder of her life in silence and solemnity. Many literature scholars and professionals agree that Dickinson indeed came to prefer solitude, stating that “When the American poet Emily Dickinson began an ongoing conversation with herself about her own inner world, she discovered one of the most unique sources of creative inspiration in the history of poetry” and that her “[gradual withdrawal] from the social world [allowed] Dickinson [to] became a remarkable transcriber and translator of inner experience – what in 1855 she called ‘a solitude of space’ [in lyric number 1,696] – and her interior tracings often yielded extraordinary poems” (Dr. Magdalena Ostas, PhD). However, this poetically-rewarding isolation came at a great personal cost; it cannot be neglected that, in the final line of stanza three, Dickinson’s “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain” describes her mind as being “Wrecked, solitary, here -” (Dickinson). It becomes apparent in this moment that Dickinson feels she has arrived at the point of no return; the Funeral is for the death of her life as she knew it - a life in the public, a life spent trying to find joy amongst the company of friends, family, and peers. Dickinson’s fate has now been cemented. She is to be henceforth in a perpetual inward state - alone with nothing but her emotions, thoughts, poems, and struggles to accompany her. In the ending of this piece, it is clear that Dickinson recognized at this point in her life that her social skills and tolerance were in shambles - i.e. “Wrecked” - and deeply feared what this meant for her. At the start of the final stanza of the poem, she not only states that “...a Plank in Reason, broke” within her mind but goes on to describe herself as dropping “...down, and down -’, hitting “a World, at every plunge…” (Dickinson). This is an alarming and frightening scene. It therefore serves as a depiction of the dysfunction, painful fears, taxing burdens, and dark thoughts that weighed heavily upon Dickinson’s mental state. With her Reason - her mental and emotional stability, sense of self, and understanding of normalcy/safety - now broken, Dickinson feels she has no other place to turn but inwards. She feels her sanity has departed - just as the passing of a loved one is referred to as one who has “departed.” This poem brims with imagery and can easily fuel numerous curiosities as to what Dickinson genuinely sought out to describe within it. That is precisely what makes it such a fascinating piece - the truth that it can be interpreted many different ways and lead differing individuals to differing conclusions. And the psychological approach is merely one method of interpretation. In analyzing this specific text through a strictly mental-health-driven lens, it is evident that Dickinson did indeed battle unseen demons. She struggled to understand what plagued her so severely but was fortunate enough to find solace in literary work - something that very quickly became her refuge. She was able to find not only comfort in this line of work, but she found and refined her voice as a woman and a writer. This land of symbolism, text, story-building, poetry, and prose was the place she felt most herself. While it may never be known exactly what condition(s) history can attribute to her mental turmoils, it is clear that these troubles played a large role in her life and literary pursuits. Reference Copy of the literary source being analyzed: Dickinson, Emily. “I Felt a Funeral, in My Brain, (340) by Emily...” Poetry Foundation, Poetry Foundation, 1983, www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45706/i-felt-a-funeral-in-my-brain-340. I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading - treading - till it seemed That Sense was breaking through - And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum - Kept beating - beating - till I thought My mind was going numb - And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space - began to toll, As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race, Wrecked, solitary, here - And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down - And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing - then - Full Works Cited: American Psychiatric Association. “Major Depressive Disorder and the ‘Bereavement Exclusion.’” Psychiatry.Org, 2013, www.psychiatry.org/File%20Library/Psychiatrists/Practice/DSM/APA_DSM-5-Depression-Bereavement-Exclusion.pdf. Editors. “Depression.” National Institute of Mental Health, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, Mar. 2024, www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/depression. Moss, Samantha. “Metaphors of Mental Illness: How Emily Dickinson and Vincent van Gogh Understood and Expressed Their Personal Battles with Depression.” Pillars at Taylor University, pillars.taylor.edu/english-student/6/#:~:text=Both%20the%20poet%20Emily%20Dickinson,disorder%2C%20and%20seasonal%20affective%20disorder. Ostas, Magdalena. “Emily Dickinson and the Creative ‘Solitude of Space’: Psyche Ideas.” Psyche, May 2022, psyche.co/ideas/emily-dickinson-and-the-creativity-of-a-solitude-of-space. Tee-Melegrito, Rachel Ann. “Stages of Depression: Symptoms, Treatment, and Recovery.” Medical News Today, MediLexicon International, 24 Nov. 2022, www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/stages-of-depression.

Without question, the most important thing I have realized about myself is that acting not only allows me to express myself creatively, but it is the one thing in this world that never fails to bring me joy. And as an individual who has struggled with depression for the majority of my existence, knowing what sparks happiness is crucial. I began acting when I was four years old; after a laughable attempt at playing soccer with my athletic brothers ended in me making flower crowns and asking them to pretend we were all fairies in an enchanted forest, my mother believed the local community theatre might be more aligned with my interests. Whenever I get to read a screenplay, film a self-tape audition, or analyze a monologue for an acting class, I see it as the ultimate opportunity to enjoy each and every second - to relish in the detail of the stage directions, explore the subtext, challenge myself to experiment with different physical choices and vocal intonations, navigate various emotions, and expose myself to new circumstances, stories, and ideas. Acting allows me to take a brief refuge in the world of the script before me. It is the only setting in which I feel safe to fail miserably - the one thing that never disappoints me. If ever I feel defeated or that I have no purpose, I know that I can read a script, rehearse for an audition, or review a Shakespearean monologue; with this, my troubles fade.

“These are the best of times! These are the greatest years of your life.” You worry they might be right That your best is nothing but strife You wonder what will appear, You look at yourself in the mirror; You see- Not the light You hold in your eyes- But the grief In which your wrinkles and red cheeks lie They never told you That the best would be unbearable And that everything we once knew Would one day escape the truth “These are the best times you’ll ever have. Oh, what I would give to be in your place.” Tell me, why is that? All I can feel are these years holding my heart in a deceitful embrace. Tell me, can you see? I am drowning in the waters that were sent to make me clean.