Author’s Note: I have been mulling over this one for a while, and there might be a second part to it to talk about another trauma issue, but I wanted to start here. With the dark book of my heart glitzed by 1920s glamor finally finalized, and sent to my agent, trauma thoughts loom. Bringing me here before the next unpacking.
As always, I remind my readers what follows is my opinion only, subject to bias and change, wrongness and flaws. I write (and read) through the western lens of American traditional book publishing. While I have C-PTSD, AuDHD, and touch aversion, I’m not a monolith and cannot speak to experiences besides my own. I don’t intend this to be definitive advice or an opinion representing the whole of any group, nor to be extrapolated beyond the groups described.
CW/TW: Discussion of C-PTSD, assault, abuse, etc. no graphic on page description; discussion of some of these themes and issues in fairytales and YA and Adult Fantasy (with plot overview of the works); minor description of effects of triggering media.
First, Definitions…
Before we begin, I want to address one of my personal pet peeves: the rampant overuse of the word trope. Which is kind of hilarious if you consider what a trope is.
Literary Trope: Traditionally, a literary trope is basically using a figure of speech for artistic effect. This is NOT what people mean when they say “only one bed” or ask what tropes you’ve included in your latest work in progress.
Narrative Trope: Narrative tropes are seen most commonly in genre fiction and can be character foils, plot devices, themes, motifs, storylines, or the like. Some are genre-specific (for example “only one bed” in romance is a plot device trope while “femme fatale” in crime is a character foil trope). These are what I mean when I say the word “trope” is overused. They’re also what I (and most of the rest of the commercial genre fiction world) are referring to when they use the word “trope.”
How does a Trope become Trope-y?
A trope becomes a trope when it’s used frequently enough for people to recognize it. Which is… pretty generic and probably why the word is easily overused.
Which leads me to the two ways I see it overused most commonly:
- Used too Broadly: The “trope” is defined as large chunks of something in the relevant genre. Example: One time, I saw someone say they were tired of the “royalty” trope in fantasy. This is… not a trope. “Royalty” isn’t really a character foil (“evil stepmother” is) or a plot device (“palace intrigue” meets that trope requirement). Royalty is just a swooping category of people commonly found in SFF books.
- Used Too Narrowly: The “trope” is too specific to be used enough to become a trope. Example: I recently saw someone complain they hated the “get kicked out of the hero’s party to discover you have an ability then do whatever you want” trope. While mildly hilarious, and probably this person is a fan of TJ Klune (same), I do remember looking around and asking, “Is that a trope? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that?” Dear reader, if takes you more than three to five words to say it, it probably isn’t a trope. Also, it does have to be understood to be a trope by the vast majority of the consumers of that genre. Otherwise, it might just be a few books where that weirdly specific thing happened, and it irked you, which, while valid for you, does not make it a discourse.
Why Do I (or should anyone else) Care?
Well… because in addition to tropes being handy for marketing purposes, they’re also handy for other groupings. Like addressing problematic issues and systemic discrimination in our work. Think: “Kill the gays;” “Black character dies first;” “Hurt people hurt people,” “Fat person is lazy” etc. etc. It’s important that genre writers know what tropes exist in their genre, and when those tropes can be problematic, so the author can choose to avoid (or subvert).
It’s also important we know what is too large or not large enough to facilitate this discussion. Losing sight of this can mean creating blow-ups that result in hurting those who are writing good and needed representation.
I saw this sort of happen with the “sexual assault” trope discourse awhile back. There was very little discussion of nuance. A majority of what I saw was, “No more. It’s cancelled.” Nevermind the statement was too broad to properly be a trope, the missing crucial pieces of this potential harmful plot device being things like: “pointless and gratuitous” sexual assault or sexual assult “to prop up a male character’s development.” Nevermind that many of the narratives out there were written by men, and cancelling this narrative meant silencing women, including women like me: survivors of sexual assault. POC talk about this frequently as well even within the context of non-harmful tropes like “vampires” and “elemental magic” being declared dead before they get a bite of the apple.
I say this all because I want to be clear my intent with the following is not to set off a red alarm leading to “no more.” More is wanted. Needed. Desperately. However, I want the more that comes to be thoughtful, because from what I’ve seen, these… issues, let’s call them, have not always or arguably often been handled with care. I want discussion on ways to change that without ending anything.
For that reason (and because I’m not sure these things even are tropes), I will not call anything in this blog a “trope.” (Despite my clickbait title; sorry, I’m a sucker for alliteration.)
Get to the Point!
Right, so. The general concept is: fantasy books that feature love as a cure for trauma. Second to that is a magic or curse that creates touch aversion and how that is either cured or worked around by the love interest.
Once Upon a Time, I called this entire construct the “Broken Girl Cured by Love” trope, but I have learned that is (a) too gendered; (b) not the kindest categorization of very serious mental health issues (including my own); and (c) as I mentioned, maybe not a trope (or at least not the touch aversion part).
Part A: Traumatized Person Cured by Love
In general, I define the traumatized person cured by love issue to be one where a character (usually female but not always) suffers a serious trauma(s), is rescued by The One, and is instantly cured of all the issues that come with trauma. No more nightmares. No more anxiety. No more agoraphobia. No more hypervigilance. No more touch aversion. Just butterflies and rainbows, engagement and weddings and babies. Tada!
If you can’t think of a fantasy where this happens, you’re not thinking hard enough, or you’re not entirely familiar with trauma.
Fairytales, Trauma, and Damsels Cured by Kisses
There’s a reason I return to retelling fairytales time and time again. A reason they’re the core of my Adult work but not my YA. My relationship with them is as messy as the trauma we’re both steeped in. They’re comforting and damaging. Amidst my violent childhood, they were a safe space, but only because they normalized everything around me that was so unsafe. They, like me, need to grow up, reimagine themselves, and start anew.
I’m not even talking about the older, darker versions of the tales. I’m talking about what I grew up with, what I watched and read. Snow White, an orphan, is sentenced to death by her evil stepmother for being… pretty? The huntsman can’t bring himself to kill her, though, also because she’s… pretty? Then she goes to live with seven strange men in a shoddy hut to… clean for them? Despite being a princess. Then she’s poisoned and basically dies. Until TADA her Prince comes, kisses her without consent, wakes her up, and BOOM! Hello wedding bells, goodbye trauma.
Cinderella, a movie I watched so much as a child my first imaginary friends were named GusGus and Jaq (after the mice in the movie), has a similar plot. Orphan girl, evil stepmother, cleaning, torture, poverty, pain, emotional abuse until TADA! Her literal Prince Charming (that’s his whole name) saves the day. Nevermind he can’t tell what the woman he spent a whole night dancing with looks like without having a shoe fit her. Apparently.
And don’t get me started on Beauty and the Beast. All I remember about that movie is crouching behind the couch, whimpering during the scene when the Beast screams at Belle over his damn rose. Because the noise of a man screaming at a woman was already too much for my five-year-old ears. I hated that movie. To this day, I can’t watch it, nor will I ever be able to relate with the bookworms who answer with, “Belle, duh!” to every survey question or Twitter poll about what Disney princess would you be. Not when all I can think of is five-year-old me behind that couch my mom won on a radio giveaway, clutching my hands to my ears, eyes shut, waiting for it to be over.
Fantasy: From Damsels to Warriors (Who Still Need Sex as Saving)
This issue followed me from my love of fairytales to my love of fantasy. Women who are sexually abused and emotionally manipulated? No worries, their handsome, roguish man of the dark comes to rescue them and BAM! The nightmares are over. Safe in his arms for the first time she can remember. Warrior squires who vomit after their first kill, sword trembling in their hands as they charge into battle? No big deal, their handsome knight and lord will take them into their tent later and soothe their fears… with sex.
Love conquers all, right?
Yeah, right.
Part B: Curing Cursed Touch Aversion
This one is a sort of subset of the first, but perhaps too specific to actually be a “trope.” However, I’m starting to see more of it, and as someone who has real life touch aversion caused by trauma, who also has a real live book going on submission that tackles these issues, it’s time for me to dip my toes into the trauma trope do-not do pond.
In fantasy, magic systems are built on the backs of all kinds of wild and whacky things. That’s one of my favorite things about fantasy. Some of these systems are great, some of them aren’t. Some of them can be done right in the hands of some and abused in the hands of other. Not unlike well, any weapon in the hands of those more powerful. And never doubt words can be weapons. But they can also be balms.
Characters who have some kind of magic or curse that prevents them touching and/or being touched is definitely a “proceed with caution” magic system. Because there’s really no way to do it without invoking in real life touch aversion. A thing people (like me) struggle with on a daily basis.
There was a time I used to read every book I saw that had some kind of touch-based magic in it, desperate to read a character like me. Now, I almost never read these kinds of books. I find it’s rare to have good representation of touch aversion, and worse, these magic systems and curses almost always have either a cure or an “exception” for love.
What I mean by that is any character who has a curse or magic that causes them to be unable to be touched or be afraid of touch but OH WAIT, the love interest turns up, and oh, isn’t that strange, THEY’RE TOUCHABLE. Or oh wait, the love interest has the perfect counterbalance magic or curse to the one preventing touch, and TADA! No more touch aversion (because apparently the ability to touch one whole human rids you of something preventing you from touching everyone else). Which leads to the oh-so-often addition of, “It’s so sexy I’m the only one who can touch you,” the strong male love interests says in a growl. Just what we wanted, some manic pixie dream girl action.
If you couldn’t tell, this is… not the the representation I’ve been waiting for. If the love interest cures the curse or “saves” the character from their magic, it’s possibly worse.
Part C: How These Things Cause(d Me) Harm
The reason I created a separate section for the harm portion of this program is because I can’t really talk about one of these issues without talking about the other. Not when it comes to my lived experience. Which is the only lived experience I can talk about, but I suspect I can’t be alone.
I have C-PTSD and AuDHD so it’s difficult to say where exactly the touch aversion came from. Would it have existed without the early childhood trauma? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it wouldn’t have been the terrible beast it is today. But if you learn anything in trauma therapy, you learn it’s not really worth it to linger on the endless spiral of maybe. I’m touch averse and traumatized. And still alive.
I have a complicated relationship with my touch aversion. The complication is why I think it’s important to have real representation out there. It’s possibly why bad representation has caused me harm. Some folks don’t mind being touch averse. I am not them. I hate it. If I could rid myself of it, I would.
Enter my childhood media whispering a promise of a cure. If only I could find The One.
It might seem ridiculous to think of an adult (even a young adult) dreaming of a whirlwind romance that would cure her of mental illness, but long-term pain makes us desperate. Don’t believe me? Check out some chronic back pain forums to see the shit people try for any small relief. Honestly, look no further than the current opiod epidemic in America.
When I was young, a piece of the child I was or could have been fractured inside me. There she still lives, hidden and sheltered behind massive walls I’ve spent years building and tearing down only to rebuild and tear down again and again. Sometimes, in between demolition and construction, I see her. Not often. More often, I feel her. My own Rapunzel, trapped in her tower, waiting for someone to save her. Now, I know that someone must be me. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I thought it had to be a man. (Yes, always a man, despite my own sexuality, another blog for another day).
Because part of me was emotionally delayed (thanks, trauma), and I live by a rule-based system (AuDHD), I was easily convinced into believing there was a step-by-step process to curing myself of my touch aversion, my night terrors, my agoraphobia, my misery.
Go out. Endure. Find The One. Let him seduce you. Smile when you’re sad. Live Happily Ever After.
But how would I know when I’d found The One? The books I’d cherished gave me a rule for that too: He wouldn’t trigger my touch aversion. He’d be the person I could finally sleep soundly with, encircled in his arms. With him, there would be no nightmares. Only dreams. Obviously.
Right.
I don’t think I have to, nor do I want to, spell out how that formula led me to some seriously fucked up situations. Places I wasn’t safe. People who abused me, manipulated me, beat me. Worse. Then the behaviors to numb it all, so I could hunt again. Only to be abused again. On and on. For years.
Trauma is a hell of a drug. But so, as it turns out, are fairytales.
Part D: Getting It Right (According to Me)
When it comes to trauma and touch aversion, I’m not someone who believes you must have a diagnosis to write characters with trauma or touch aversion. All I ask is authors write with sensitivity and ask for help from people with lived experience before they put anything into the world. To me, representation isn’t about the author, it’s about the character and the reader. If the character reads right to the readers who need the representation, that’s a win.
I would love to go back to the days when I eagerly grabbed books off the shelf and threw them into my buy basket for simply referencing touch or trauma. Of course I would love for my own book featuring a traumatized, touch averse character to be published, but if it isn’t, I want someone’s book to be. Because we need more. A lot more. There’s too few books tackling these topics. Touch aversion especially. Even fewer that do it well.
Who Already Does it Right:
Kaz Brekker in Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows gets touch aversion and trauma right. I believe, despite some controversy, that Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games series did right by trauma. Marissa Meyer’s Heartless will always be one of my favorite trauma depictions of all time. Melissa Bashardoust’s Girl, Serpent, Thorn gets cursed skin right. Helen Hoang’s The Kiss Quotient (adult romance) gets touch aversion from ASD right.
Of course there are more, especially where trauma is baked in but not the focal point. I think of books like Crown of Feathers by Nicki Pau Preto where the main character wields her kindness and compassion as a weapon against her abuser, and This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone where love persists despite abuse, growing stronger, healing the world if not the lovers, and Maggie Stiefvater’s The Raven Cycle where love and trauma are both thrumming beats of the narrative without love overwhelming trauma to become a magical deus ex machina cure to wrap the characters in their very own happily ever after bows
There are not many I can think of beyond those mentioned that do touch aversion well. Or not that I’ve read. To be fair, this might be because I’ve read enough deeply disturbing narratives where touch aversion is some kind of “madness in the blood,” or “evil,” or the character is treated as damaged goods, or seen as a manic pixie kink because he (sorry, it’s usually a he) is the only one who can touch her (and yes, it’s usually a her) without her getting sick/maimed/killed. Where it’s a sign of “claiming” or dominance. And she loves it.
My relationship with this latter point is messy. Once upon a time, I loved books like that. Loved them so much I thought I could wish myself into them. I remember twelve-year-old me lying on my front lawn, a quiver of arrows at my hip, my bow and arrow strung around my back, ignoring the pain of the wood in my spine as I pressed a book to my chest and squeezed by eyes shut, whispering into the sky, begging God or whoever was listening to take me away. To whisk me into my book. Into my own adventures where I could finally find love. A cure. Someone to tell me what to do.
Books like this gave me hope. They were wish fulfillment. In my darkest days, they made me believe in something. Books like this are dangerous. They fulfilled the wrong kind of wish. Pushed me to rely on everyone except myself. Made me look to external sources of validation and guidance. Stripped me of barely-born agency I was all too eager to give away because that’s what trauma does. Made it all too easy to believe in the easy thing, not the right thing. What I needed was a bit more real and a lot less sexy.
I needed someone to write me a story of the traumatized person healed by self love.
Some might not want or need healing. They might see their touch aversion as a strength, even. But me? While I see now there isn’t a cure, I’m happy to take healing.
Yet, if I had magic, I would magic this away. If true love’s kiss would do the trick, I’d kiss a bushel of frogs to find my The One True Prince and a night full of dreams instead of nightmares. So it’s hard to begrudge authors this narrative. It’s hard to say “stop” writing those stories that once gave me something to cling to.
Instead, I’ll say, please think. Ask. Learn. Be interested. The traumatized are not your kinks. Or plot devices. No one, but especially not women, need to be hurt to teach their male counterparts a moral lesson about “gee, wowie, women are whole humans, too!” How hot we are isn’t what gives us value any more than our ability to keep a clean house. We aren’t here to be saved so the handsome love interest can get a handy in gratitude. In fact, we don’t need to be saved by a love interest at all. We need healed, and the only ones who can do that is… us. We need that to be just as sexy.
Traumatized person healed by self love. Prince(ss) Charmings optional.
Aimee Davis 