Last week I allowed myself to give up. 

It's not that I've never been a quitter. I've quit a lot of things that are both good and bad for me - saxophone, Tae kwon do, white bread, Urban Outfitters, vodka, eating poorly, eating right, social smoking. Quitting, for me, is neither habit nor hardship.

But I've never not been able to give a shit. At my core, I am a shit-giver; I eagerly, sometimes embarrassingly, overextend myself with certain ideas and people. I indoctrinate myself. In fact, this is why I have a relatively healthy relationship with quitting: I care profusely, therefore I quit. I care that vodka gives me the kind of pillaging hangover that decimates my day and responsibilities, so I quit. I care that we live in a consumers-first, people-second world and so, in tandem with the diminishing quality control and rising prices of goods and services, I try and think about where I spend my money. 

But even when despair has me catatonic, I can't quit my feelings. I can't stop thinking that my time is NOW , and that these people - this person - is worthy of my mitochondrial love. About this, my therapist says I'm passionate. Friends avoid eye contact. On good days, I choose the optimism of the former and remind myself it's not the worst thing in the world to love yourself and others too hard. Mantra: it's okay to love people. The rest of the time, all I can think is that I'm woefully naive and have some kind of pathological antipathy toward mental self-preservation. Life is the price, because it can't happen if you won't let go.

I spent most of 2012 wishing I wasn't alive, on the figurative precipice of quitting life. Right now, I'm cool - mostly just glad I'm not dead. And giving up, at least today, means I'm trying real hard to live.