From politics to COVID: Living in limbo is killing us

I’ve felt stuck in limbo for some time now, and I know I’m not alone — although that’s exactly how I feel: alone.

After more than 30 years of working a “regular” job, where I could count on consistent expectations and a regular paycheck, I’ve spent the past couple of years at the opposite end of the spectrum. Work and income levels are almost never consistent when you’re continually hopping from one contract to the next. Security has been replaced by constant chaos.

It might seem weird to think of being stuck as chaotic, but that’s exactly what it is. Think of it like a pinball machine, or a glass bottle with fireflies or supercharged particles zinging around inside, bouncing off the glass and one another in a frenetic yet futile attempt to escape. That’s what a mind living in limbo feels like. It’s exhausting and, if it goes on too long, can feel debilitating.

You can’t reach the peace of mind promised in the so-called serenity prayer, because you can’t find the “wisdom to know the difference” between what you can change and what you can’t. You’re stuck bouncing back and forth between anger and depression in the five stages of grief, energized by false hopes that send you spiraling back into despair when they fail to materialize. And you’re scared to move on to acceptance, because you think that will mean “settling.”

Now imagine millions of bottled-up human minds stuck in this same dynamic.

Blocked entrance

The twin states of limbo created by our divisive politics and the COVID-19 crisis have left many of us feeling bottled up and helpless. It’s easy to say “we’re all in this together” when it comes to the pandemic, but that feels like a slap in the face when we can’t even be together because of the virus. Zoom and social media only get you so far, especially when human beings crave physical touch — the affirmation of a hug or handshake.

And it’s difficult even to get verbal affirmation on social media, which has become a minefield of disrespect, bitterness, and accusation.

Politicians and media moguls have learned they can rake in far more money by stoking outrage than by building bridges, so they amplify the chaos. And that’s left us feeling even more isolated and stuck than ever.

Donald Trump just took that all to the next level (and beyond), leading outraged voters on both sides to flood the voting booths in a desperate attempt to escape their sense of limbo. But when one side lost — as was inevitable — Trump forced us into four more months of stuckness by continuing to contest the election.

Is it any wonder all that pent-up energy spilled over into violence? It was probably inevitable.

Picture one of those bottles again, and imagine the opening at the top is the safety valve. It’s the way things are supposed to get out, an analogy for a regular, fair election. Now imagine it gets stopped up. Trump says it’s been blocked by his opponents (“rigged election!”), and his opponents say he’s the one who’s blocked it by contesting the results. Either way, it was blocked, and everyone was trapped in limbo again.

We’re still trapped in limbo with the virus, too, needing a release but not knowing where to find it. One in 6 of us entered therapy for the first time in 2020, joining nearly a third of Americans already in counseling. At least in therapy, you’ve got a place to “let it out” without risking the backlash of haters on social media — which started out as a place to connect with others but has become weaponized as a political tool to repel them: demeaning, blocking, canceling anyone over the slightest disagreement.

All of a sudden, it’s not social, but antisocial. And we’re all blocked up in our little separate bottles again, struggling to break free but, at the same time, cared to death of what’s outside... just like COVID makes us feel.

Limbo fatigue

Personally, it was hard enough moving all the way across the country to a new home after spending more than 50 years in the same state. Now, I’ve spent half my time since I’ve been here in lockdown. I haven’t been to an author event in more than a year. So, believe me, I understand “virus fatigue.” But I don’t want to get a deadly virus, either, so I stay inside and wear a mask when I have to go out.

I choose to remain bottled up. It’s safe, but it isn’t easy, because those thoughts in my mind keep pinging around about the “what ifs” that could be happening if we weren’t in a pandemic. What if I could be out signing books? Or going to trivia nights at the bar? Or singing karaoke? Or drinking a cold one with my friends.”

That’s what happens when you’re in limbo: You wonder what it’s like on the outside if everything weren’t all bottled up. You wonder what it would be like to have thoughts that actually went somewhere instead of just pinging around like random shots from a BB gun. Human beings are wired for discovery and progress; we’re fueled by hope, but when hope runs headlong into the impossible, the result is limbo.

And chaos.

The two might seem like contradictions, but they’re elements of the same condition: Helplessness channeled into anger and frustration.

That’s what being in limbo feels like.