uncertainty – Pamela Helberg

I am all out of conclusions. That may be an obvious conclusion to draw if you’ve read my previous two blog posts for the A to Z Challenge. Generally, I write to figure out what I am thinking, but lately, I just cannot seem to wind my way to a conclusion.

I know it is a virtue of age and maturity, as well as a sign of the times in which we live, but answers of any kind seem increasingly elusive. Facts, even when verified, are rejected as untrue and flat out lies get promoted as capital T Truth. We increasingly live in an era of uncertainty, politically, economically, socially. And that uncertainty has crept in to my writing. As I try to find and then follow that thread that almost always appeared, I now question myself. My inner critic jabbers away at me as I type, eroding my confidence in what I used to think of as a surefire way to figure shit out.

One good friend reminds me on the regular that difficult or challenging experiences are simply metaphors. Like when I had plantar fasciitis, she asked me where in my life was I not standing on my own two feet. So, I decided to take that approach here.

Where else in my life am I having difficulty coming to conclusions? Ooooh. Well. I recently (in August) launched myself into a new life, selling my house, buying an RV and hitting the road. It’s been a learning process. I’m not sure yet how it is going to work for me. I am having difficulty settling into #vanlife, and find myself casting about for alternatives: maybe I could live in a condo here, or perhaps I should buy a lot and build a pole barn and RV pad, or I might just need a bigger RV, and for sure I should get an RV with 4WD.

Clearly, I am trying to get some clarity. I’m tossing out all manner of ideas, trying them on, asking friends and relatives what they think. Calling realtors, getting pre-approval, just in case. Just in case. I want to be prepared. But, I haven’t yet reached any conclusion or concensus—

and there’s the metaphor:

My life and my writing, conclusion-less for now.

Life imitates art.

I have Chapters left to write.

I have Worlds left to explore.

Some days my life feels like one fat question mark. What am I doing? Why am I doing it? Who am I doing it for? Who am I? Why am I here? What is my purpose? Who do I think I am?

That last question, that one comes up a lot: just who do I think I am? I hear my mom (sorry Mom) asking me: “Just who do you think you are, young lady?” I hear (probably imaginary) voices whisper “Who does she think she is?” I spend a lot of time wondering that as well, and this too: “When am I going to grow the hell up?”

I imagine that my questions are not mine alone. I believe that most of us have these sorts of doubts about ourselves and our mission, our Quest (to use a Q word), here on earth. What would it be like, I often wonder, to be sure of myself, to be certain in my worth, my value, my purpose? How can people be so goddamned self-assured (or self-righteous)?

Myself, the older I get, the less sure I become. When I was in my twenties, I knew everything. I answered questions with great authority even if I didn’t know the answer. I could stand in front of a classroom of people most of whom were older than me and spend an hour or two discussing writing. Now I’m more than twice that old, and I’m having anxiety attacks about leading a 20-minute discussion with a classroom full of people half my age on a subject I actually do know a lot about.

What the hell happened to me? How has my life come to this place of uncertainty? Have I chosen the correct path? Will the decisions I make today come back to haunt me in a year or two?

Me, in front of Shakespeare's birthplace, Fall 1987 — Me, in front of Shakespeare’s birthplace, Fall 1987

Just today I told a friend about how, when I was 19, I went to Europe, traveled across the continent in the dead of winter, alone and with no concrete plans, no hotel or hostel reservations, no pre-purchased train tickets. Fearless, with only a copy of Let’s Go Europe and a few American Express Traveller’s Cheques. Now, I can’t imagine being that carefree, that trusting of myself.

Last weekend, I had lunch with my nearly 25-year-old daughter and told her about my summers during college working as a forest fire fighter. As I regaled her with tales of bad-assery, I kept thinking to myself “Were you crazy?” and, conversely, “What happened to that girl? Where’d she go?”

Maybe it’s just the menopause talking. The hormones (or lack thereof) could be out of control. My therapist said to me the other day (as I was complaining about hot flashes and throwing myself onto the fan in her office) that perhaps this is the time in my life that I will know myself the best.

Maybe menopause doesn’t make us crazy, she suggested, but helps to clarify things. Maybe only now will I begin to discover just who I think I am. Perhaps the only way to learn is by asking questions. Maybe the answers lie somewhere in the uncertainty, in the spaces between.