It’s an easy mistake to make. One day, you’re walking down the street and see a couple holding hands, and somehow, instead of wishing them and their whole lineage a long, painful death (as punishment for their romantic exhibitionism), you smile, and you think to yourself, “You know what, it is a nice day out. I’m so happy these two lovebirds are out in the world, enjoying themselves. Love is a wonderful thing.”
You stop walking. You’re shocked. You reflect back on your whole existence, and are surprised to see a genuinely positive, kind-hearted, and self-attuned response to what would have previously been a rage-inducing incident. You ask yourself: Self, why am I not being a bitter, unpleasant bitch? Am I, mayhaps, on my period? But then, you notice you’re engaging in the greatest self-healing act of all: you’re listening to reggaeton, and now you’re not sure if you are truly cured from your nihilistic depressive thought-patterns, or if you’re just listening to a really poppin’ jam.
Does this sound familiar to you? It should. It’s a nationwide problem. What, you think the rise of Despacito and the surge of Trump’s America aren’t correlated? Think again, muchachos. We’re all just trying to fix ourselves with a little Latin flare.
Reggaeton is such a fun genre of music that, now that it’s been co-opted by so many, is fairly common to encounter at a club or a dorm party, even if the party people involved are whiter than the Biebs. If you associate reggaeton with good times, or with partying and being under the influence, or even with the endorphins it helps you release when there’s some really good J Balvin on your workout playlist, you may begin to think that you’re… happy? And if you start listening to reggaeton in the every day–as you walk to class, as you chill in your dorm room, or as you try to relax on a plane ride–you might even begin to forget that the world is not (as Pitbull says) a non-stop paaaartay.
If you listen to enough reggaeton, you will begin to forget what sadness feels like.
It can be quite numbing. The beat overcomes your booty and your booty overcomes your disorder. And herein lies the danger! Perhaps you are, indeed, feeling better. Perhaps your meds, if you take them, are improving your mental health. BUT what if it’s not your self-care processes that are making you feel better? What if it’s literally just a dope-ass tune? Here are some questions you may ask yourself to get to a proper diagnosis:
Is this feeling of “happiness” evoked by Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina,” or am I just on Zoloft?
It’s probably both, tbh. A ella le gusta la medicina, dale mas Zoloft.
Are my anxiety-inducing thoughts truly gone or are they just drowned out by this sick beat?
Sometimes, Nicky Jam raps fast enough that you can’t even think about your existential crises. That’s crises with an -e because it’s plural, not because it’s Spanish.
Am I happier as a result of releasing more endorphins now that I’m twerking all the time?
“They” say that exercise is good for people who suffer from depression and anxiety. Because of that sweet release of endorphins it causes, or whatever. Twerking counts. Just ask J Lo.
Do I truly love and accept myself now, or is Ozuna just a real smooth talker?
With lyrics that tell you that you are the moon, a supernova, and an enchantress, you can’t help but think, “He’s kind of right.” Not scientifically, of course, but, you know, yeah, sure, you are pretty magical. You wear witchy outfits. You listen to Princess Nokia and Lorde.
Is Prince Royce actually my therapist?
In “Darte Un Beso,” Royce sings that he “Doesn’t know what to do anymore so that you are okay… [He] only wants to sing and calm your fears, so that you always have what you need.” What you need may very well be to have a healthy support system, and health insurance so you can see a real therapist. And let’s be real, he seems down. But you don’t have to be! Just listen to some good-ass reggaeton. And look for dope resources.
The author would like to note that mental health issues are a serious topic and that she’s not making light of it, but rather, reclaiming it because fuck that shit.
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