Between Black and White, There Is 50 Shades.

Yes, I know, I am a little late to the table when it comes to 50 Shades of Grey but I still feel that I should add my two pennies to the pot.

I have a confession to make… I LOVE a bit of drivel! Strong male and female characters from different ends of the spectrum falling in love under unusual circumstances. Throw in some cheek heating sex scenes and a splash of supernatural, then pigs in muck have nothing on me.

My Better half rather crassly calls it my vampire porn but either way I have no shame in my little habit. I am certainly not one to hide my books amongst the covers of a more intellectually prestigious book. I would quite happily read them on the train to work or in the office on my lunch break and if people asked me what I was reading, I would simply say "porn" or "drivel" depending on my mood. So, considering my love for the obscene, naturally I was looking forward to reading 50 Shades of Grey even if it did lack otherworldly creatures.


Don't get me wrong. I like other genres and I have a small collection of books that are sat tapping their fingers impatiently, waiting for me to pick them up again. However, after a long hiatus from reading anything other than stories I found interesting in the media, I decided that I would ease myself back into the world of fiction with a bit of drivel (50 Shades of Grey).

I was utterly disappointed.

With all the hype that surrounded this book I had expected the story to be ground breaking. The 'Sex and the City' of this era…this, it was not…not even close. After every couple of chapters I found myself putting the book down, exasperated and ranting at my Better Half about how irritating it was. The female character was simpering. The male role lacked dimension. The sex scenes are firstly unbelievable and secondly, well, actually quite dull after a while. It was like "oh look they're having sex again, whoop-de-friggin'-do!" and lastly the writing itself was just irritating. I'm dyslexic and so I don't always notice spelling and grammatical errors but they smacked you in the face like a wet kipper. For those of you who are the spelling, punctuation and grammar police I can imagine this was positively cringeworthy.

However, saying all of this, I do have to bear in mind that I am part of a generation that is not easily shocked and crudity is part of every day life. What I find mild and relatively inoffensive, other generations may see as the equivalent of being punched in the boob and being called "the forbidden" C word.

I have noticed a distinct number of the more mature ladies have been asking me what I think of 50 Shades with a little bit of a twinkle in their eye. Desperate to read it but still too nervous about buying it while people are looking. I've been wondering if they are seeking approval to buy the book or if they just want to know what it is about without having to read the smut. On the other hand you have the more liberal mature ladies who have read it and have, indeed, felt it necessary to divulge explicit details about their sexcapades with their spouses. This was usually the point when I would sit there and think of England. As I said, I am not easily shocked but it is often a little unnerving when suddenly someone you thought of as being quite reserved tells you about what is hidden in their underwear drawer!

So with the tedious sex scenes, the poor writing and the ridiculous amount of product placement, you may ask why on earth did I keep reading it if it was so terrible?

I had to. I didn't want to fully judge the book until I had read the whole thing. After all, if you critique a book but haven't read it all the way through, how do you know that your judgement is justified? I also wanted to see why it had been criticised for it's 'glorifying' of domestic abuse because, other than him being an overbearing control freak (which never came across as malicious to me), I don't see how it can be seen as a tale of abuse.

*SPOILER* Yes he hits her. (Ok that part probably isn't a spoiler, it is a book about BDSM after all.) But, from the beginning of their encounter, Anastasia is aware that Christian is into BDSM. She makes verbal agreements to be his submissive and what a surprise, she finds the 'softer' acts very exciting but she is scared of being hurt. He tells her he has a dark past and because of that he actually enjoys inflicting pain as well as pleasure. She then goes on to manipulate him into inflicting said pain in order to get more information out of him about his past. He agrees, he belts her. "Oh what a surprise" she doesn't like it and leaves. Not exactly what I would call abuse. If I asked my Better Half to hit me and he did, I could hardly blame him for it if I gave my consent for him to do so. In my opinion that is, others may see it differently I'm sure.


No, I don't think I could do better but with this genre of books becoming so
popular I can think of better authors to try; J. R. Ward, Kresley Cole, Gena Showalter and Sherrilyn Kenyon to name a few of my favourites but there are so many out there, it would make it difficult to choose just one.  E. L. James is not a bad writer but if I was to give her a report card it would probably say, "Good start, but must try harder".

I'm  afraid to say that after a couple of chapters of the second book I became quite
outraged and so I did a Joey Tribbiani. But instead of putting the book in the freezer I removed it from my tablet. I may get back to reading it one day but in the mean time my
stack of 'must reads' have given up tapping their fingers and have taken to throwing themselves from my coffee table to grab my attention. Little do they know that their impatience will go unrewarded as I will be researching the concept for my own little bit of drivel…

The 'M' Word

After a very stressful few months and then unceremoniously belly flopping into the new year, I find myself out of energy and about as useful as a car with no engine. When I feel like this, I tend to get very anxious and fed up and inwardly start berating myself for being so useless. "Winter blues, here I am, come and get me you miserable bitch!"

Before I start spiralling into the dark depths of my own misery I thought it was about time to shine the spot light on mental health. Just the term "mental health" makes me cringe and despite awareness being raised after the tragic death of the beloved Robin Williams, it is a term that is still taboo and many who suffer with mental health issues still hide in the shadows. For self preservation I want to edit myself to the point that this blog would only be eight words long, "I suffer from mental health issues. The end" but as I said when I started blogging, It is time to step out of my comfort zone.

It is hard to accept that you struggle with something that is socially unacceptable and harder still to admit it and seek help. I understood at a young age that I battled with depression and anxiety. On three occasions, between the ages of 12 and 19 years old, I tried to commit suicide. Thankfully, I was naive enough not to understand the effects of certain medications and other than feeling very sick and ashamed, I was still alive and glad that my attempts to take my own life had not been successful. At the time I did not see my actions as being selfish. When you feel expendable you think that no one will bat an eyelid at your death. After my last attempt (and in a more balanced frame of mind) I thought, "What if someone I knew did the same thing?" I knew that I would feel very sad and angry. With that realisation I made the decision never to make the same mistake again but it wasn't until I was 23 years old that I admitted that I needed help.

When I was 8 years old, I was taken to see a counsellor after my Dad left. I don't remember it very clearly but I do remember that I did not want to talk to him. In fact I felt this over whelming urge to bite him and run screaming from the room. I didn't though. I just sat there, saying nothing. It was a futile endeavour that I had no interest in repeating, so when I was referred by my doctor to see a counsellor after having a melt down 15 years later, I was more than a little reluctant.

I remember sitting in the waiting room, wondering how many times I was going to be asked "And how does that make you feel?" and whether I actually would bite the counsellor and run screaming this time. Although, I wasn't so sure I would get away with such behaviour as an adult. Luckily I was called through before I could get cold feet. As I walked into the office I looked up to see a mature lady wearing a casual blouse and a pair of comfy trousers, loose hair and a warm smile. No stiff suit, no clip boards, no quizzical stare and in that moment I felt relief.

This counsellor did not judge me nor did I feel like she was sizing me up for a strappy little number, she steered the conversation with a few probing questions but mostly, she let me talk. By the end of the first session I felt raw. Like someone had ripped open my festering wounds scrubbed them until they bled and then neatly dressed them again. It felt strangely good. I hadn't expected it to feel good, in fact I was expecting it to feel like I had been flattened by a ten tonne tank. I almost felt like skipping as I walked home until I remembered I wasn't coordinated enough to attempt such a thing so, instead I mulled over my discoveries hoping that I would learn something that would change my life.

I had seven more sessions with my counsellor and in each one I learnt a little bit more about myself, which in turn helped me have a better understanding of the people around me. In our last session my counsellor told me I was very articulate and incredibly astute. I turned my head to see if someone had slipped into the room behind me. There was no one. For a person who frequently tripped over her own words and with the ability to walk past her own sister in the street without seeing her, I would not have labelled myself as either of these two things. It was nice to hear though but it was many more years before I gave these words any credibility.

After my counselling sessions, I continued with other forms of therapy, some more helpful than others. I even attended group sessions for anxiety sufferers. It was awful! A group of people with varying levels of anxiousness expected to stand up in front of strangers and explain why they suffered from anxiety. It seemed like an oxymoron and very little progress was made in these meetings but I received useful information on coping techniques so it wasn't a complete waste of time.

I would like to say that I was completely cured of all my depression and anxiety due to all the therapy I received but, sadly this was not the case. Although my festering wounds became scar tissue, scar tissue is fragile, it requires maintenance. Little knocks and bumps had become easier to manage but despite my revelations, I still found myself spiralling with any major blow.

It's hard to reach out to anyone when you feel so lost inside your own head. When someone asks, "How are you?" any other response other than "I'm fine thanks, and you?" you are fairly certain will be greeted with eye rolling and blank stares followed by awkward conversation while the other party is looking for a quick exit. It does make it easy to politely deflect such a question if asked by a stranger or someone you consider more curious than caring but when it is someone who genuinely does care, you find you are still doing the dance of polite etiquette. Why though? To look strong? Self preservation? There are probably hundreds of reasons for why that so many with mental health issues struggle with every day. I for one worry that I will sound stupid, that no one will understand and that I will ultimately be expendable if people don't like the answer to their loaded question.

Recently I found myself resenting  the "How are you?" question even though I am guilty of asking the exact same thing. I keep thinking, "If you really care about how someone is feeling why not ask a REAL question?" Not to say that you should go in all guns blazing and ask someone about their childhood but something a little less probing such as, "How did you get on at the doctors the other week or I heard so 'n' so has been having a tough time at school lately, how are you coping?" Nothing that would be classified as prying but enough to give that person the opportunity to open up a dialogue about how they truly are if they feel comfortable to do so. Surely if we could all do this then those of us with mental health issues may not feel so alone in the dark? If you know someone is struggling will you reach out to them or will you wait until they ask for help? Tricky questions with even trickier answers.

I don't want to be ashamed of being a little bit mental anymore. I want to accept it, to wear my battle scars and give people the opportunity to accept me for who I am if they wish to do so and I don't want to worry about the people that cannot accept me. I hope those of you still hidden in the shadows will find your own voice and I hope that it doesn't take another celebrity suicide or any suicide for that matter, for people to realise that mental health is a real issue and should be treated as such.

So, "How are you today?"