uncertain

To live with uncertainty...

Western civilization tries to live without the certainty of God. He died, it has been rumored. God never existed, others say.

I was raised in a home where God existed, and even after I outgrew the notion, I must admit-- the conditioning did a number on me.


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I realize that, as much as I can live with uncertainty in some areas of my life, I am unable to do it in other areas.

For example: I can live not knowing where the next meal is coming from, or whether I have a job tomorrow, or where I'm going to sleep tonight. I can deal with those things. Some people wouldn't be able to, but I can, and I have.

However, I can't seem to function properly when it comes to emotional certainty. When she is upset and I want to comfort her but she pushes me away and says "There's nothing you can do about it" and I recognize that she is right... I cannot live with that uncertainty.

So I must learn to accept it.


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I must learn to accept it because if she really didn't care, if I really was such a drain on her, if I truly have made her life unpleasant and intolerable, then she wouldn't be calling me up, asking to sit on my couch and drink with her, as we zone out and watch the television set, both of us writhing in psychic pain in regards to our respective neuroses.

If that's all she demands of me, and not much more, then I have to accept that.

Granted, it's not flattering to admit that you can't save someone, or help them the way you want to help them. It doesn't paint me in the best light-- I come off as weak, uncaring, too self-absorbed to make any meaningful contributions.

But she tells me time and time again that she doesn't want that from me.

And yesterday... yesterday I was feeling bad for my own reasons. And she went out of her way to make me feel better. She made me breakfast in the evening. But as she sweated and labored in my kitchen, her own personal anguish was taking a toll, in the form of endless cel phone calls that interrupted her cooking.

Friends in a jam, old lovers, worried relatives... they won't leave her alone.

I didn't ask her to make me a meal. But I did call her that morning and asked if we could have lunch so I could "vent" about my own state of affairs.

Then my father stopped by unexpectedly, and we had an intense conversation. It changed my mood from bad to worse. When she called to tell me she couldn't meet me until 12:30, I told her it was OK, that my father had stopped by and that I was just going to go straight to work. I told her that it would only make her feel bad if I vented on her.

Later on, she called and asked me if I was OK. She offered her food, as a hearty distraction. I accepted.


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Just as I accepted that, I must accept the fact that not only can I not save her, but that she doesn't want anyone to save her.

She wants someone to help her forget, to take her mind off of things. She is not like me, wallowing in my own mental gutters in order to confront my demons. She would rather not pick at the scabs, the way that I do.

I have recently resolved to stop picking at my own scabs, and I think it is helping me to cope. That's why I feel the true weight of this realization: I've been so wrapped up in my self-therapy that I have become detached from other people's suffering.

Not everyone can spill their guts in a blog, or put their energy into creative endeavors for the mere purpose of escape. Everyone is not cut from the same cloth as me.

For the first time, I am beginning to see that what makes me care about her is the fact that she doesn't want to bug me with her problems. But my designs on solving her problems and all that... they're just figments of my imagination. I have no such power.

She comes to me because I don't ask her about her life. And if we DO begin to speak on it, I try not to suggest "answers" or "solutions".


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It's been hard. I must admit, it's been very difficult to reign in my know-it-all-ism, which is what I resort to when I'm uncertain. Flexing my knowledge muscles makes me feel like I have some sort of control over my life.

But she knows it's a fraud... a lovely fraud, designed to mislead, to represent a different reality other than what storms away outside the walls of my apartment in Burbank.

I just have to keep faith in the fact that she would've been long gone by now if I didn't make her feel happy somehow. For me to doubt, to be uncertain of where I stand with her, is to insult the very foundation upon which our relationship rests.

People always want examples. Like Thomas, they want to see the stigmata wounds in the wrists, the wounds in the feet, the scarred gash in the ribcage.

What did Jesus have to say to that? "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe..."


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I'm not trying to preach here. I'm just trying to live with uncertainty, turn it inside out and see it for what it is-- a self-defeating mind-state that I have to shed in order to evolve as a person.

I'll leave you with a humorous anecdote, to wash the taste of religion out of your mouth: One time Mr. T was at the El Pollo Loco in Sherman Oaks, on the corner of Sepulveda and Dickens, south of Ventura Blvd. Mr. T lives in the area and banks across the street from El Pollo Loco. I've seen him around town a lot.

Anyway, one day he was recognized in El Pollo Loco, and soon people started to crowd around the former B.A. Baracus as he waited in line for his food. They asked him for autographs and he happily obliged.

The chain manager wondered what the fuss was all about, and when he saw this guy claiming to be Mr. T, obtaining autographs from customers, he naturally suspected some sort of scam. He smiled and said to T (whose real name is Lawrence Teroy) "You're not Mr. T..."

T was taken aback by this, but obviously it wasn't the first time this had happened to him, because he just kept on signing autographs and quoting famous lines from The A-Team and Rocky III.

Finally, after some time, the manager was convinced and approached T with a request for an autograph. T playfully denied the man, and when asked why, he replied (in that world-famous Xzibit-on-steroids growl of his): "Because you didn't believe..."

According to whoever told me this story, a few people laughed, and the manager felt embarrassed. But after a spell, T did sign the autograph for him.


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Sometimes, I find myself demanding tangible proof of love, but really-- it's right there in front of me, all the time. Every phone call, every e-mail, every night spent eating good food and watching TV while drinking Newcastle, every affectionate tease and loving dig at my ridiculously large ego... that's love.

Every time she feels bad but doesn't want to talk about it, that's not pushing me away-- that's love. But it is definitely NOT what I expect love to be like. I see it as her pushing me away, but the way she sees it, she doesn't want to bum me out with the sad details of her life.

It took a long time for me to get this, and I can't say that I have learned the lesson fully.

But at least I can live with the uncertainty, now that I am certain of what it is and where it stems from... and that's enough for me to go on.

I got a show to do, so I'll wish you all a happy weekend now and tell you all about it later.