To Give or Not to Give

Since birth, it has been stamped, by iron-clad work shoes and barefoot beggars feet, that we must give, and give fully.

Some argue that we are taught that our entire worth can only be determined by how much we contribute to our societies. Doctors are viewed as the most noble profession because they save lives.

I would like to add upon this fact, for most snotty-nosed middle-class adults look down upon garbage collectors. But it is those very workers who make sanitation and hygiene possible and put the ‘civilised’ in ‘civilised society.’ Without them, we would all be rotting away in our obscenely smelly streets, contracting a myriad of mystery diseases.

One can only deduce that is not only how much one gives that raises their value in the cold and cataract-ridden eyes of the world, but how glamorous ones’ giving is.

Are you an obnoxious millionaire youtuber shoving a camera and a makeover in a homeless persons face or an unemployed 16-year-old giving a busker your last $2 that you were going to buy a slushee with on a suffocating summers' day?

One of these actions receives millions of views and a coupon to cut into the line to heaven whilst the other gets tutted at by their parents for fueling the poor mans’ hypothetical drug habit.

Are you a doting suburbian housewife, with access to money, a car and plenty of time, preparing a large and spice-infused meal for the family being applauded for her back-breaking efforts or a sister going to bed hungry so that her sister could have the last grilled cheese, only for it to be left for the flies.

Although the giver in the first scenario objectively gave more, I believe the second giver holds more magic.

Something about her is a little more sacred.

I love to give.

And because of this love, I am constantly and consistently drained, depleted and resentful.

I make breakfast spreads, paninis and pancakes galore with brown sugar syrup made from scratch, and get back a tired shrug and thanks.

I sit and listen to friends for hours upon hours about recycled boy drama or parental woes, only to be flaked on and forgotten the minute the boy decides he feels like acknowledging their existence again.

I am both of my mentally-ill parents’ therapists, that is until they forget I exist.

I give hugs, gloss, advice, promises, back-up in fights and pick-ups after them. I shout lunches that I most definitely cannot afford and have given metaphorical piggy-backs to many who have not deserved it.

And here I sit, having served my societal duty to give all I have, and still beyond unfulfilled and miserable.

I have never, and will never, give to ever receive validation or be recognised.

However, I am pointing out that unconditional giving is one of my most self-destructive habits and I refuse to subscribe to it anymore.

I no longer long for human connection, it is much too burdensome and boring.

Instead, I want a license, a car, enough funds for petrol and the occasional tub of ice cream,

So that I can drive to a secluded cliff every night and sit with the stars in silence and solitude

Until I die.

This is all I have left to give.