Mental Illness, Trauma, & YA Author Responsibility

CW: discussions of mental illness and trauma (including suicidal ideation) in fiction and in real life, brief mention of Thirteen Reasons Why, swearing

rough wooden carving of a person clutching their head with an anguished expression

“Depression” by Bobby McKay (can be reused under CC-BY-ND license)

This is not a critique of the Netflix adaptation of Thirteen Reasons Why, which I have no intention of watching. This is not a critique of any YA literature related portrayals of mental illness and/or trauma. Instead, this is an unpacking of some of the questions and thoughts I’ve been carrying as an aspiring YA writer with a mental illness since articles about 13 Reasons Why first appeared on my Facebook news feed. Questions I’d love the opportunity to discuss with more writers and readers of YA.

Questions like, “What should authentic portrayals of mental illness look like in the context of YA lit?” From the day I started writing YA, I have been obsessed with being as accurate and authentic as possible in every aspect of my stories. But what is the responsible course of action when the authentic truth is fucking awful?

If I want to write a teenage character who experiences suicidal ideation the way I did as a teenager, should I limit how far down that hole of hopelessness they fall? Can I be completely honest about how alluring death can be in that head space or would that glamorize suicide? Could my truth, shared fully, have a negative impact on readers? If so, how do I moderate the truth in hopes of maintaining their emotional safety?

How do I show the rawness of suffering in ways that increase understanding but not harm? How do I know how far is too far? How do I respect the, at times, all-consuming pain I saw in my teenage friends who lived through trauma without seeming to glorify that pain? How do I make space for kids who need to see accurate representations of shitty mental health experiences in order to feel empowered to take a step towards talking to someone about their mental health without alienating kids who might find representation that’s too accurate triggering?

What is my responsibility as an adult who still writes YA? To be honest? To do no harm? To be developmentally appropriate, of course, but, again, how far is too far when we’re talking about the real experiences of mental illness teenagers live? How do I protect and respect the kids for whom I’m writing?

I have no answers, but I think it is still important to put the questions out there. Some teenagers need to be able to see the painful, trying, even traumatic aspects of their experiences in YA in order to combat the stigma around mental health they could be internalizing as well as self-deprecating thoughts they might have. I don’t know what I would have done without access to YA featuring mental illness and trauma as a teenager. YA was one of the few healthy coping mechanisms I had. That being said, as an adult, I have a better understanding of the risk some portrayals of mental illness and trauma pose. I want to be able to carry an awareness of both of those in my writing.  I hope being honest about these questions will help me do so.



Let’s Push for More Nuanced Bi+ Representation

For Bisexual Awareness Week, I wrote a guest post for the website GayYA about bi+ representation in Young Adult fiction. Based on the whirlwind that has been the past few weeks, that will be my blog post for this month. Please check it out here and look forward to a return to my regular twice a month blogging schedule next month!


To Be Black, Queer, and Female

CW: references to Orlando massacre, general references to racism, sexism, queerphobia, transphobia, and related evils

My people are dying.

Every month, every week, every day – whether mainstream news outlets report it or not – my people are dying. Black and Brown people dying. Queer and trans people dying. Women dying.

And I am afraid.

I am afraid that one day one of my safe spaces will be violated and turned into a place of horror and grief. I am afraid that one day I will read a tragic news article and one of my friends will be listed as a victim. I am afraid that the wrong person will learn that I am queer or that my friends are trans and attack us. I am afraid that the police will one day see me or my friends or my family as a threat and find ways to justify murdering us. I am afraid that the men throughout my neighborhood who I think of as less than friends but more than acquaintances will feel so entitled to my body that my rejection of their advances will result in my murder.

I am afraid that fear will become the only constant I know.

And in the midst of those feelings, I am livid. Because no one should have to live with that kind of fear. No one should have to live with the terror and sorrow that take root in your heart when you see time and again there is no safe place for your people. No church, no club, no concert, no party, no theater, no school, no place at all that you can go and exist with the certainty that you will leave alive and whole.

I am livid because it makes no sense to me that other people cannot accept us – people of color, queer and trans people, women – as people worthy of respect and life. How dare anybody use their disturbing ideology to deny us our most basic human right – the right to simply live! How dare anybody seek to make us afraid! How dare anybody desecrate our bodies and our sacred spaces!

I am livid and I am afraid and I am sad and sometimes I am even hopeless because this cycle of fear and anger and grief seems to be my plight as a Black bisexual woman living in America in 2016 and I don’t know how to make it stop. I don’t know how to keep my people safe. I don’t know how to keep myself safe.

All I know how to do is keep writing and speaking my truth. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t feel like much, but I have to believe that being fully accountable to my truth through writing and through oral sharing will in some way counter the hatred and ignorance that is killing people like me. Because there has to be something beyond this harrowing cycle.

I want to keep writing until we reach that something.