Fifty Shades of Grey is romantic only because the guy is a billionaire. If he was living in a trailer it would be a Criminal Minds episode.
— from Prince Ea’s Facebook post
Yes … I have read Fifty Shades of Grey (all three of them, and the prequel). It was entertaining, a bit gut-turning, and not particularly good literature. But I read them. I have not seen the movies though; absolutely no intention to either.
For the record, the word romantic and Fifty Shades of Grey do not, in my opinion, belong in the same sentence.
On the other hand, I do love Criminal Minds. I get caught up in their ability to see inside people’s minds and work out what makes them tick. There are some seriously good story-lines on that show, along with many disturbing ones. I do try not to think about what goes on in the minds of the writers. Christian Grey would certainly give them something to chew over.
But, isn’t perspective interesting?
Same action, two different settings — changes things totally.
It really makes you wonder if what we see is actually what is true? How much of what we see, feel and hear — and how we respond to these stimuli — is dependent on our background experiences, opinions and attitudes?
Quite a bit, I would imagine.
Take, for example, the fact that I have a child with special needs. He has Asperger’s Syndrome. This is the high-functioning part of the spectrum, but is not without its difficulties; some of what we have to persist through is downright distressing.
He is verbal. He is articulate, warm and funny; he manages to function in society with minimal intervention.
Whenever I compare my son with other children who have special needs, I always consider myself lucky. There are times when I honestly feel like we have the toughest job on earth; but then I force myself to get some perspective.
It is exactly the same with my chemotherapy. Right now, sitting here typing this, I feel like a sack of shit. I have a headache that will not go away, aching muscles and I feel like I am walking around in some sort of hyper-reality. I am here, but I’m not.
What I really want to do right now is curl up in a ball, bawl my eyes out and feel sorry for myself.
I think about my grandmother. She has been through hell over the years; two run-ins with breast cancer, bowel cancer, ongoing issues with her bowel owing to ‘treatment’, a severed nerve rendering her unable to independently lift and move her leg (following a stuffed up hip operation) and macular degeneration meaning she really can’t see at all. She lives in an aged-care facility (note the emphasis on the ‘care’ bit, for sarcasm) where she sits in her room most of the day, unable to read or watch TV and unable to have any sort of sensible conversation with most of the other residents as they all have some form of dementia. There are some lovely carers, but they are few and far between and most of them treat her like an imbecile.
What sort of life is this?
With all of this going on, do you know what she said to me the other day?
‘I wish I could do this chemo for you.’
No, Nanna, you don’t. You’ve been through enough.
I just need to get some perspective.