Once upon a time, all I had to find comfort in were books in YA fiction, which compared to the selection available now, there wasn't exactly a lot to choose books to choose from that were worth reading. Despite this, the few books I did pick up and read all the way through have left an imprint on my heart and have molded me into the person I am today.
One book I was never quite able to get my hands on or read was "Thirteen Reasons Why" by Jay Asher. I knew the gist of the book from the few times I had read the summaries on Amazon while compiling a book wishlist for the next holiday or event in which I'd probably get a book as a gift. I never did get the book, but after my teenage years had come to a close, I found it available on iBooks and decided to buy it. Still, I never did read it.
When I heard that this book that had always been on my mind (and my heart) was in the process of an on-screen adaption that would become exclusive to Netflix, I was elated. There was the anxiety that I get when any book I loved gets an adaption for TV or a film...but this was different. I had never actually read the book that I was so anxious to binge-watch. Despite this, I knew the important part of the book: Someone committed suicide, and they left 13 tapes behind to explain why she did and sent them to the 13 people who lead her to the desperate act of taking her life. Also, I read almost ever "spoiler" that surfaced as the anticipation for the new series began to rise.
So I knew about the detailed scenes of the bullying and sexual harassment, I knew about the explicit and graphic scene where she witnesses her friends sexual assault. I knew the accurately depicted rape scene of Hannah. I knew how despite the advice of experts, they showed in full, painful detail the process of Hannah killing herself and eventually being found by her mother.
Despite knowing it was there, it wasn't enough to prepare me for the journey I would embark as I watched all thirteen episodes while the rest of the world became divided on the issues the book, and it's screen adaption, brought to life.
So after pulling a Clay and taking forever to get through the whole season, this is what I have to say to everyone who feels the need to share their opinion on the show and their feelings about it: Please, for the love of all that is good... don't.
I was Hannah. I was Jessica. I was sexually harassed, sexually assaulted, physically harmed, verbally humiliated, abused, and mentally abused in the 7th grade. It was in my third-period Choir class. I started the year going into that class believing I'd find my safe space, my solace, and reverie. Because before I became a writer, all I wanted to do was sing.
After less than a week in this class, my world crumbled around me. Everything I knew became irrelevant and useless. Because instead of learning to sing as a choir, we were left to fend for ourselves. There was no teacher after attendance had was complete.
I was, like many of us, a different person in middle school. I was very naive, and despite the fact that my life up to that point should have made me a very untrusting person, I wasn't. I still believed that every person wasn't evil, and that they would never try to hurt me.
After that year I was no longer that person. I was depressed, angry and confused. I couldn't stop crying so much that I'd be screaming and no one would understand why. I told them I was being bullied, which for me wasn't an uncommon occurrence. So I did what my mother suggested: I filled out incident reports.
I was sexually harassed in the halls, in my classroom without the supervision of a teacher, and assaulted every single day. I anxiously filled out what would eventually be a useless incident report, trying to cram my giant handwriting and very long, detailed experience into a minuscule, cramped box that asked: "What happened during the reported incident?"
With tears streaming down my face and my entire body trembling, I'd turn in the damned report every day. But nothing was ever done about it.
Eventually, I had started to act out, and they'd call my mom at work, which she and all of her co-workers hated. It was the same thing at the same time, every day. I eventually was told to remind the office admin to fax a copy of my report to my mother as soon as it was in their hands.
Still, they did nothing.
At the end of the year when we had to clean out our lockers, I left class with a friend so she could grab some last minute things from her locker. I knew I needed to leave because a group of four of my abusers--all girls--were in the process of trying to harm me physically.
We went to the adjacent building and realized that these three girls were following us, and they were about to jump me. I pleaded for my friend to get help, because the class was in session and I was aware that I couldn't hold my own against one of those girls, let alone three.
She left, but she never came back. I was shoved into lockers as they shouted at me--they called me a slut, they told me I was fat, and I was ugly. They said the boys only tried things with me because it was a joke to them. They wanted to hurt me because they enjoyed humiliating me.
If it wasn't for an eighth grader in a nearby classroom who had been by the door to witness what was going on, the teacher (who was also one of the Football coaches) wouldn't have come out, whistle blazing and breaking up what would have been a very brutal beating.
They sent me to the office, and since I had an End of Year Assessment meeting scheduled with my teachers and my mom, I saw her the moment I walked in. I was in tears, and when I saw her, I lost it. I was safe because my mom was there. But I was in trouble because I had, according to the faculty, instigated a fight.
My mother was infuriated and when she yelled at the principal, asking "What the hell do you think you are trying to do? My daughter was nearly hurt. What are you planning to do about it?" Alas, the principal didn't even know about the incident until my mother decided to yell at her about it.
Still, they did nothing.
I was free for the summer, and that meant I was alone with my family and my thoughts. I self-harmed for the first time and became addicted to using it as a coping mechanism for my anxiety and depression.
When I went back for my eighth-grade year at the same school, the guidance counselor placed me in a class with one of my abusers. I changed my schedule to avoid them, but I was still in the room where I experienced traumatic things every day just the year before. It was the same room where all of my peers stood by and did nothing while I screamed and cried, while these kids used me as a punching bag to practice for the fight they were participating in later that day.
The stress from the trauma and being forced to interact with everyone who had hurt me sent me spiraling. I finally told my mother in detail what had happened. I was acting out, and she felt like she was losing control--so after a horrible family meeting, she and my bio-father asked if I had anything, anything at all to explain my behavior. So I told her. I shook and cried and wrung my hands because for the past year I had been taught that what happened was my fault, and no matter what I did to find help, help would never come.
My mother pulled from school, and despite everything we did to keep me in school, I was never really able to return. Whether it was because the post-traumatic stress caused issues that prevented me from being in school, or my depression and my chronic pain from Rheumatoid Arthritis--I never finished school. I tried everything, but the moment I felt unsafe, I fled. I can admit that. The moment my educational environment ceased to appear safe, my PTSD came back, and I quit.
We as a society teach students that school is safe. That student will be safe and protected, and if someone breaks the rules they will be punished, and all of the horrible things will go away--if you report it correctly and don't cause issues for the staff and faculty.
It's been a little over a decade since these things have happened to me, and for the most part, I chose to keep it to myself. I have shared it with romantic partners, with close friends as well as other survivors I'd come across. But outside of private conversations I never publicly spoke about what I experienced. In my mind, it didn't matter when it happened, and it was over a decade ago. What good will it do? Why would I put myself through the hurt of discussing it when no one ever cared in the first place?
After watching 13 Reasons Why, I got my answer. People knew Hannah was struggling. She had friends who dropped her because of stupid things. They slut-shamed her, and they blamed her for things that she didn't do or had any control over. When Hannah tried to explain or reason with them, it only fell on deaf ears.
She had feelings for Clay, and while he was on her tapes and she was quoted saying: "You do not deserve to be on these tapes. But I cannot tell my story without you. You did nothing wrong, Clay. I did. "
She almost had sex with him on the night of the infamous party. She had issues going through with it because of her experiences with every other guy she had encountered. Because of all of those guys who grabbed her ass, groped her and harassed her--she too had what could be considered mild PTSD.
Because when you've experienced sexual trauma, you may eventually try to be intimate with someone who you care for, and who cares for you. If you haven't given yourself time to deal with it and find a way to cope, your mind will change the faces of your abusers to the face of the person you want to be intimate with; you will see them doing the things your abuser did.
Hannah did this and pushed him away. She didn't want him to leave, but being socially awkward, Clay left because she told him too. That in itself can hurt. Because your instincts tell you to run and escape from them, but you want them to prove to you that your instincts are wrong.
When this doesn't happen, it can break your spirit. It will take some time to heal from not only the trauma that ruined what could have been a healthy and potentially great experience but even more time to recover from the trauma itself.
So, if you're going to post about how you feel that Hannah's experiences are stupid and don't give her a reason to be miserable: shut up. If you think 13 Reasons Why is romanticizing suicide: grab a dictionary, find the definition for romanticization and shut up.
Because to be perfectly frank, unless you yourself have experienced anything close to what Hannah experienced you don't get to say what it is, or isn't. Unless you lost a friend or relative to suicide because of the torment they experienced in school, you don't get to say anything. Unless you, yourself, have survived being surrounded by people you are supposed to trust, only to have that trust betrayed again, and again, and end up losing hope because you can't trust anything anymore, you don't get a say.
Unless you have been sexually abused, sexually harassed or sexually assaulted--you do not get an opinion.
You know what you DO get from 13 Reasons Why? You get the chance to be better, and a chance to become more aware of yourself, your peers and the things you say and do around others. You are given the chance to avoid becoming a reason someone wants to end their life.
Do not tell me that this show did anything wrong because it went against some new suggested protocol, or that it is somehow showing horrible things and making them beautiful.
It isn't beautiful. Also, screw the protocol. Screw what everyone else says, thinks or believes about this show because the people who claim these ludicrous things have most likely never spent a day in the shoes of someone who is a Hannah. And for their sakes, I hope and pray that they never will.
