Tell me without telling me

“Never give up”. Oh great, I’ll just do that then. We’re watching Louis Theroux interviewing Bear Grylls, and that’s his mantra (Bear’s, not Louis’). There it is: ‘Never Give Up’ emblazoned on the wall of his outdoor office – in a saccharine curly font – to remind him, just in case he forgets one day and accidentally dwindles into a feckless bum. It makes me twitch. I find it asinine, too ubiquitous, surely, to actually inspire anyone? It’s t-shirt fodder, words that don’t really mean anything. And there’s something else. It’s smug. A phrase only said by someone safe in the knowledge that they have indeed never given up. My inner voice pipes up, something that sounds a lot like ‘oh fuck off’. I mean, in principle, I’m on board – who wouldn’t be? It’s not like I’d plaster ‘Give Up’ on my wall (but then again, I wouldn’t put any Instructions For Life on my wall). I imagine myself strutting across that mountain top, interrupting Louis (sorry, Louis), squaring up to Bear sat there, cross-legged on his private island, and asking him:

What’s wrong with giving up?

Last year I decided I was going to learn to properly knit – a real piece of clothing like a jumper or a cardigan. I bought some expensive wool and needles, watched a few YouTube videos, and then promptly forgot all about it. And then there was the piano. I played every day for about three months, and one day: poof! I gave up. I’ve given up the violin, the recorder, tap dancing, and tennis. I’ve given up growing my own herbs, learning to draw, mindfulness, and yoga. I’ve given up A-level Chemistry, doing pull ups every day, and learning Italian. At 28, I gave up acting. At 29 I started a Personal Trainer course, but it bored me, so I gave up. A few months ago, I planned to go outdoor swimming every week in all weather (fuck that). And I can’t even tell you how many jobs I’ve given up on. It’s the story of my life; I always give up – obstacles, boredom, distraction – it’s inevitable; it always ends the same. If I were to write an autobiography, it would be called: The Chronicles of a Quitter: 42 years of giving up. But nobody wants to hear that story.

We want to hear about achievers, see-er-through-ers, finishers, the ones that keep on climbing until they reach the summit, proudly stabbing their flags into the ground in one final act of strong intention. It makes sense, of course – there’s no glory in quitting. And so we say things like “Winners never quit and quitters never win”, “It seems impossible until it’s done”, “Never surrender”. It’s everywhere you look. All over the internet, social media, TV, in books. We say it to our children, we say it to ourselves. We’re obsessed with #goals, keeping going, bettering ourselves, never giving up. It’s all good and well, but what if you’re missing a key ingredient? What if you’re hardwired to chase the joy, the newness, the 47 concurrent ideas in your brain?

Or what if, sometimes, it’s just time to give up?

“We tried everything we could – we really did, we tried for years.” My friend tells me, her eyes wide. What strikes me is the justification, the self-judgement. She wants me to know that they’d tried everything they could to avoid committing the cardinal sin of giving up. But what if they knew, years ago? What if the shame of ‘giving up’ made them look past what was staring them in the face? What if they’d wasted precious years in the pursuit of not giving up?

The message we receive is consistent: you choose and then you stick. We ask young people, at 18, to pick a vocation, to decide in that bud of youth what they want to be. We expect people who are married at 27 to still be married at 50. It’s there in all the big things and the small – that nagging guilt to complete, to stay in the lane you chose at one particular moment, to lie, uncomplaining in the bed you made, with only your resolve and determination to keep you warm at night. It makes no sense. Surely giving up or not giving up is implicit. You only leave a marriage because you can no longer be there. You only leave a career because it’s not right for you. People don’t just wake up one morning and change direction for no reason. You’ve already been trying not to give up, for weeks, months, years – way before you even realised.

I can see my husband in the mirror. “Are you still reading that book?”

He’s been reading it for about three months. I look at the bookmark, poking out at the halfway point.

“Yes”, he sighs, picking it up with the air of someone clocking in for a night shift.

“Why don’t you just read something else?”

Another sigh as he opens the book.

“Nah, I’m half way now so I’m just going to keep going.”

“Life’s too short to read a book you’re not enjoying.”

“I know but maybe it’ll get better.”

He knows it won’t, but he has to tell himself that to keep going, and he has to keep going because…

Because he’s started so he’ll finish.

I think about his commitment to finishing this tedious book, a hefty wedge that will take him at least six months to complete. How is he doing it? What’s driving him? It can’t be the judgement of others; nobody would know if he reads it or not. It’s as if he just has to finish it… for the sake of finishing it. As if that, in itself would give him some kind of satisfaction, despite the tyrannous boredom he’s had to endure. I just. Don’t get it.

Of course there’s a huge part of me that’s terribly jealous. I’m jealous of the finishers and their completing ways. I’m so far at the other end of the spectrum that often I don’t even finish screwing the lid back on something. No. Somewhere in between placing the lid back on top and turning it to the right, I lose interest, I walk away. But this is how I am, so I have to find the spin, the silver linings. And maybe there are some. Maybe it’s less giving up and more constantly changing direction? I’ll try to ignore the fact that if you change direction enough times you’ll just be going round in circles. Ok then.

How about this: I’ve always felt an inner freedom – something that possibly looks like frivolity from the outside. I can’t make myself do things I don’t enjoy or find interesting. Of course this is a problem so big I can’t look directly at it for too long without burning my retinas. When my son says he doesn’t want to tidy up his toys because he ‘just can’t do stuff that’s boring’, I know exactly how he feels. And the things I am excited by? In the end they mostly become boring, uninspiring, shackles around my feet. The wool, the violin, the mindfulness apps, the courses I didn’t complete — I could build a bonfire of giving up. Does it make me feel like a failure? I’m not sure. Sometimes, perhaps.

All I know is when I’m done, I’m done. When the pleasure’s gone, the party’s over. There’s no victory, no satisfaction, no certificates or cardigans or freshly grown lemon thyme. Just the sense of an ending, vague and unspoken. And an overwhelming feeling of glorious relief.