"Thirteen Reasons Why," and the problem with stories about young suicide

I’ve seen some posts about a new Netflix series based on a novel, “Thirteen Reasons Why.” It’s a young adult story, but it resonates with a lot of adults as well. I want to explain why the premise of this book troubles me. It’s not an isolated theme; I have seen multiple popular books follow this storyline. To be clear, I’m not criticizing anybody who enjoyed the book or the Netflix series. This story moved many people, and you have a right to enjoy whatever you do. Also, I’m not saying the author had no right to write this. I am very wary of artistic censorship and don’t want to discourage creativity. But I believe that in the interest of compassion and good taste, some topics ought to be approached more thoughtfully.

“Thirteen Reasons Why” is about the suicide of a 17-year-old girl named Hannah who was bullied. Shortly beforehand, she recorded a series of thirteen cassette tapes. They were sent to thirteen people, explaining why each of them were responsible for her death. A friend of hers had agreed to anonymously deliver them. The narrative is told through the perspective of Clay, a boy who Hannah addressed on one of the tapes. He has just received them and is listening to her story.

I spotted the book in a store a few months ago and was put off by the premise. Then I learned it was a bestseller and that it’s even on the summer reading list of some high school teachers, intended to help them understand teen bullying and suicide. They facilitate group discussions on this book. I recently watched the first episode of the series on Netflix. Not because I was drawn in, but because I wanted to see if my initial impression would hold up.

The introduction opens with a sketchy animated bicycle, drawn in the style of the animations from Juno. I like that style, but there was something a little jarring. It set the tone for something twee and cute. The first episode begins with a shot of the recently deceased Hannah’s locker, adorned with layers of adoring notes from her classmates. “I love you,” “I miss you,” “You were so beautiful.” There are hearts and paper flowers and a photo of her smiling and gorgeous. She narrates from the first scene, speaking from her cassette tape. This makes it seem like she’s watching and aware of how everyone reacts.

As the episode plays out, there are several issues made apparent. The first is that her suicide, while accurately portrayed as tragic, is romanticized. I get the impression that it’s supposed to be poetic. It sends the message that killing yourself in high school will immortalize you as young and beautiful. It will redeem your own transgressions and leave everyone in awe of you, talking about how wonderful you are. It’ll be a great form of revenge, leaving everyone sorry for any way they’ve done you wrong. You’ll be a high school celebrity preserved in a heart-shaped photograph behind rose tinted glass.

This is the last message that a high schooler struggling with mental health issues needs to absorb. I know because I was one of those kids. If this book had come out when I was fifteen, I would have eaten it up with a spoon. This was partly because of life situations and partly because of innate depression. Some people dismissed it as attention seeking. While I did seek unhealthy attention in my mid-teens, the self destruction was not insincere. It stemmed from genuine distress and genuine crises in my environment. While “Thirteen Reasons Why” would not have influenced me to kill myself, it would have lured me into further fixation with that topic. I would have romanticized it, believing the horrible cliché that suicidal people are “just angels who want to go home.”

Overwhelmingly, people don’t have helpful beliefs about suicide. Many vilify those who do it, saying they are selfish and cowardly. Others will almost canonize those who have made that choice. Although these responses are opposite, both come from the glorification of suffering. 

People who condemn victims of suicide feel that suffering is meaningful, and that you are cutting corners if you end your life to escape. That’s why they call it cowardly. (Some may have been traumatized by a loved one’s suicide and are angry, feeling abandoned. That’s understandable, but becomes harmful when used to condemn everyone who feels suicidal.) On the other hand, people who romanticize suicide victims seem to believe that suffering, in itself, makes you noble. It’s the idea that a person is a hero because they experienced terrible pain. It is true that many of us find meaning in our pain and can use that to develop more empathy. But framing suffering as heroic only encourages people to become stuck in such suffering, and can discourage others from offering help. This shows up in every societal level, from interpersonal relationships to political “bootstrap theory.”

Help needs to be delivered in more than one form. You need friends and social relationships, but friends are not therapists and shouldn’t be placed in that role. Emotional support is distinct from depending on one or several people to solve all our problems. I have made that mistake in the past, and have been on the receiving end as well. It’s a huge weight to hear somebody say, “You’re the only one I can count on” or “You’re the only reason I can get up in the morning.” If you have mental health problems yourself, they can be triggered by that type of emotional drain. At the same time, many people with those problems are afraid to reach out because they think that talking about it at all will be a burden. This is why balance needs to be sought, and more than one type of help is needed. Friendship and therapy can’t replace one another.

In stories like “Thirteen Reasons Why,” the message is that suicide could have been prevented if others reached out, and that unkind treatment drives people to suicide. It’s true that many people have said they decided to continue living because others were helpful. It’s true that social isolation and bullying contribute a great deal to suicide, especially for teenagers. It’s hard to envision a world outside of high school when you’re that young. But in “Thirteen Reasons Why,” Hannah explicitly blames the people on her tapes. Some of the acts committed against her were horrific, while others were petty. The author wanted to communicate that even seemingly trivial things can add up. That’s true, but the kids in the story who committed the less aggressive acts will now spend the rest of their lives shackled to the idea that they made her kill herself, all for getting jealous or gossiping or making a hurtful comment. They did all of these things as kids. This doesn’t mean they weren’t responsible for their behavior, but I don’t think a person should be damned for life because of a shitty thing they once did in high school. The author, Jay Asher, may not have condoned her behavior. But the overall story conveys the idea that these kids were responsible for her death and that suicide is an appropriate act of revenge.

Hannah sends the tapes to Clay and, in the beginning, states that he is one of the reasons she is dead. But then later, in the ninth tape, she apologizes for implicating him in this. She tells him he is the nicest person she ever met and that he didn’t make her feel suicidal. She says she had actually fallen in love with him and wished they had more time together.

I know the audience had to wait to hear Clay’s tape in order to create suspense, and to offer a cliffhanger. But in the context of the story, it was cruel. It came across as manipulation. She knew he had feelings for her and had been a good friend. Hannah initially blamed Clay—knowing full well that he had never harmed her—and then strung him along to make him listen, only to basically say, “Just kidding; it wasn’t your fault.” All of this sounds terrible. And adding that she would have been his girlfriend if she had chosen to live will haunt him for the rest of his life. He will always wonder if he could have prevented this.

It’s relevant to the plot that Hannah is beautiful, which the other characters respond to with jealousy and frustrated attraction. I can see how that would play into the story, but it implies that her death was even more of a loss because she was pretty. I have never found a story about an unattractive girl who died tragically. This isn’t only an issue with “Thirteen Reasons”; it’s an ever-pervasive theme. As it adds up, it drives home the message that pretty girls’ lives are more valuable. Specifically waifish, doe-eyed, white, artsy, indie, middle class or wealthy girls. They are the source of endless fascination, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl whose life came to a tragic end. This is a trope I call “Manic Pixie Dead Girl.”

It’s notable that much of the bullying was slut-shaming. The author may have intended to show that slut-shaming causes damage, but that message was diluted by the fact that Hannah had never done the sexual things she was accused of. It was repeatedly stated that she was “innocent,” that she had never done more with Justin than kiss him. Not only that, but it was her first kiss. The rumors were presented as even worse because they were lies. But why should it matter whether or not it was true? Isn’t it wrong for people to bully others about their sex lives to begin with? How was it anybody’s business if Hannah had hooked up with Justin, or whether it was her first kiss or her fiftieth? The gossip wasn’t bad because it was untrue; it was bad because it was judgment in the first place.

I’ve heard a lot of people say they liked this story, including some who have been bullied and have been suicidal. Jay Asher has said that numerous teens have reached out to him to thank him for writing the book. I’m glad it has been helpful for so many. I’m happy this book exists for them. Maybe my reaction is unusual, but some of these implications worry me. Suicide shouldn’t be portrayed as a cute, quirky hipster trend; as a way to make others sorry; or as a way to gain permanent love.

When the underprivileged are not political

I often hear the opinion that saying “I’m not political”, or choosing to avoid conversations about politics, is an act of privilege. That only sheltered people have the option of non-involvement. I would agree that if you’re personally effected by an issue, you are far more likely to care about it. I also recognize that people who are poor, or non-white, or immigrants, or women, or not straight, are often judged as “being political” when they’re just relaying their everyday experiences, because their existence itself is deemed political. All of this is true. But there are also ways in which marginalization can prevent political focus. Here are some examples.

A person who is homeless and living on the street is more likely to be focused on the basics of everyday survival than on contemplating political topics. If you’re expending all your time and energy trying to find food and shelter, you’re not going to spend hours reading about politics on the internet. You (most likely) won’t attend marches. You don’t have money to donate to causes, and can’t boycott products because you need to take what you can get.

Back in the fall of 2011, I was involved with the Occupy movement in New Haven. I’m glad to have taken part, as I learned a lot and met some wonderful people. Many of them made efforts to give to the homeless people on the New Haven green, which was good. They gave them food and offered a media platform to those who wanted one. But not every homeless person was enthusiastic. Some of the Occupiers were sleeping in tents on the green, and a homeless woman informed me she didn’t like it because “me and my friends need this space.” There was a notable moment when a fellow Occupier tried to high-five a homeless man in solidarity. He shook his head, clearly not enjoying the gesture. I’m not going to assume that none of the homeless people cared about politics, but many were too focused on their immediate needs to invest themselves in philosophical theories and keep up on current events.

If a person is not homeless but still living in urgent poverty, they may be too busy to pay attention to politics, get involved in community organizations, or similar things. They could be working so many hours that they barely have time to sleep, let alone dedicate large blocks of time to an ideology.

Additionally, mental health can play into this. I know people who disengage from social justice issues and choose not to involve themselves in political conversations—not because they’re apathetic, but because it will throw them into a psychological crisis. Extensive involvement in these things can be very detrimental to some peoples’ mental health, particularly if they struggle with depression, anxiety, PTSD, or agoraphobia. There are people with these conditions who choose to be involved, and that’s perfectly fine. But I respect the choice to disengage for their own well-being. Sometimes the ones who are most impacted by these topics are the ones who most need to pick and choose their battles, or else they strain themselves to the breaking point.

Some who are impacted by these social issues don’t have access to education that will teach them about it. Some are politically invested, but not liberal. I know people of marginalized identities who have right-wing values. Some don’t have the time, and others care so much that it drains them and they need to maintain distance for the sake of their health.

Many privileged people are involved in politics—and that can be a problem when they’re out of touch with others. It’s true that privilege can also play into non-involvement or apathy, but it can be more complicated than that.

From June: "You Ripped the Colors Out of Me"

(Explanation--I've been feeling progressively worse the past month and this afternoon I stayed in bed for four hours and did nothing. But then I wrote this and really want to get back on track.)

Spectrum: A Letter to Severe Depression

You ripped the colors out of me
Plunged your hand into my chest
Yanked out a fistful of rainbow,
beams of light
Left me split open, dripping grey
You took my red ambition
Rockets and capes, flight forward
Never a stop sign in sight
You took my orange fruits of labor
My yellow tipsy buzz from
sipping on the sun
(now I can only taste the burn)
You took my purple prose
Leaving only black and blues
Battered hues
and
A ghostly trace of green
Envy for another time
A more colorful self.

Notes from under the weather

It’s not as if anything in particular went wrong. Nothing dramatic or unusual happened to me. I’m on my Zoloft, so I’m not hauling my life around unmedicated. But this week I’ve cracked, and couldn’t even feel the tension building beforehand. There was no warning.

Some of you might know this process all too well. Your garbage cans are overflowing and there are crumpled paper towels wilting all around them on the floor. The dishes are piling up into a great wall of china. You haven’t showered or gotten dressed yet today. All you can do is bury yourself under the covers with your headphones and wait. If you’ve ever been there, whoever you are, please know that I’m there with you. We’re in different trenches, but we’re both buried. There is no hierarchy underground.

I had to call out sick from work. I’m going back tomorrow, but just couldn’t do it today. When you work with the public, so much of it involves smiling and engaging them and not exposing others to an emotional virus, especially children. So I quarantined myself. You might know the feeling. If you do, then you know anyone who would tell you to just pull it together can fuck right off. So can anyone who accuses you of “attention whoring” for posting about what’s going on. Even if you’re not directing your thoughts to anyone specific, which I’m not, casting them onto the web can seem like a lifeline. You might even be afraid to talk to anybody individually. Whatever you say might come out overbearingly emotional, as if you’re leaving them with some final goodbye. I’m in that place, too.

I don’t want to die, and I’m not going to. I just want an intermission. Just a frozen year. If only I could sleep for a year without dreaming and wake up to a world where nothing but me has changed, picking up right where it left off.

Mike has been incredible in his support. I lay down with him in his armchair for hours last night and he told me, “You’re a beautiful ball of life.” If you’ve ever been in the same place, please know that you are, too.

If you’re a friend or well-wisher, don’t be afraid to talk to me. But also, please don’t think you’re being rejected if I don’t write back for a while. It helps to hear other voices, instead of my own thoughts swimming in circles and dragging me underneath. But if I don’t have the energy to respond yet, it’s nothing personal. There are so many other people reaching out who have problems a lot more urgent than mine, but I can’t reciprocate at the moment and am so disappointed in myself for that.

I’m not okay. And maybe that in itself is okay, because I trust that eventually I will be. If you’re in the same place, which ironically feels completely solitary, please know that you’ll be okay too. This shadow can be a blanket, and we can all sit together, bundled in the quiet until we're ready to come out.

The illusion of permanent distress

Depression and anxiety have a way of convincing you that whatever issues may be distressing you at that moment are actually a perpetual weight you drag around; that the only reason you don't feel them constantly is because you ignore their pull. Then once you're in a more positive state, you realize how wrong that is. The issues may still be there but you're no longer sinking in them. The bog of negativity just tricks you into thinking it's permanent, that it hibernates in the marrow of your bones.