Giving

Giving is an interesting word. “Giving up” and “giving in” sound on the surface to be the same but there is a subtle difference; the latter is passive and suggests that you have finally reached the end of the road and don’t care anymore, whereas the former is often used in arguments where you have been cornered and have no choice but to surrender (not necessarily gracefully). Have you ever argued with a loved one and said “I give up” (mental image of throwing hands in the air)? Giving in tends to be a silent act whereas giving up tends to be a passive aggressive gesture, defiance in the face of the inevitable.

Giving out is reserved for people who have free samples to distribute in my experience. Not to be confused with putting out, which implies that the free sample is sexual in nature.

Giving down is not a phrase but is found in sentences such as newspaper headlines saying “Giving down as charities feel the pinch”. Certainly not the opposite of giving up. Life is rarely that neat.

I gave up and gave in today. Well, I always have to be different and take two bites at the cherry. So here is an explanation for my greed. Alcohol fuelled I admit. In a moment of crisis I took myself off for a large whisky and then followed that up with a trip to my favourite bar where I had three bottles of barman recommended Veddett Extra IPA, which may well become my tipple of choice.

There is nothing wrong with alcohol fuelled writing (or, as a very short term measure, alcohol fuelled coping). Dylan Thomas was famous for doing his best work when tanked, not that I’m comparing myself to Dylan Thomas. I mean, he was rubbish. Okay maybe not rubbish but he was an arse. To quote one critic “He knew when he’d behaved badly, and it filled him with self-loathing. Just not enough self-loathing to prevent him behaving in exactly the same way again.” That could of course be the story of the human race. Fuck up, feel bad about it, do it again.

Back to the giving up / giving in thing. Did I tell you I was going to be sixty this year? It’s a sobering thought. You become very conscious of the minutes when you get older. When you are young time doesn’t matter, although in isolated moments of terror the concept of eternity can be scary. When you are older you get resentful of every minute that turns out badly. When your intestines turn on you like a cat in a barrel, as they did for me today and as they have been doing several times a day for months, you feel every twist of the gut. That’s where I am and I’m happy to share it, because we don’t share this stuff enough. Let’s be honest, the mind body interface is where it’s at. As the Pope said in Godfather 3 “The mind suffers and the body cries out in pain”.

Must watch that movie again. Underrated.

Anyway, for the record I am not a drama queen. Florid maybe but not obsessed, I swing between loving the world and wanting to hide from it. A drama queen just wants to strut it like a stage. That is definitely not me, I like to be in bed by 9.30.

I give in because, as I wrote two days ago, I don’t care any more about something that has been a huge part of my life for nearly forty years. Really, really don’t care. I don’t want to be turned inside out (almost literally) any more on a daily, hourly basis. I don’t want to sit on a lavatory in pain because the latest deadline is in jeopardy. I’m tired of giving. With one exception.

I’m giving myself a break.