the war on pleasure
- notes on the shackles of religion, suffering and emotional repression
I’ve mentioned this before but lately, it feels as though I’ve forgotten.
You don’t get a reward for suffering the most. Or the longest. Or the hardest.
By that, I mean, the big cosmic entity in the sky isn’t going to reward you for suffering the most out of everyone. You don’t get a better seat in heaven above the normies. You don’t get a gold star that says “#1 Abstainer!”
You just suffer. And you suffer now, in the present.
I have always been a good noodle. In elementary school, I took home awards for Caring or Kindness or Respect as a result of our “Character Counts” award ceremony. In fact, the only compliant I ever got from a teacher was that I talked entirely too much.
As school marched on toward high school graduation, I made decent grades. I could have made better grades if someone cared enough to remind me to try harder.
I was so far removed from trouble that a security guard asked me if I was a freshman (I was a senior and he saw me every single day).
Academia is the only way I understood to receive approval. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. In my mind, that behavior was reserved for burnouts and losers. People that wouldn’t attend college or would be a homeless bum. I looked down on teenagers that had fun. I had filed fun away under the “for later” category.
I’ll smoke weed for the first time later. I’ll drink for the first time later. When I had “made” it and had piles of money and a big house. Odd how this justification worked in my brain. Later meant I had everything to lose. So why not enjoy the now?
Raised by religious Boomer grandparents and Gen X parents, I was taught that suffering is inherent. You must suffer for it is your responsibility. The eldest child doesn’t get to be happy, make mistakes or experience joy. They shoulder the burden for everyone else to enjoy their lives. Which sounds ridiculously similar to coping.
I’ve always been deeply fascinated by the religious. I believe in God, but I don’t believe in the God many seem to. I believe in a loving and accepting God that does not judge based on whatever man-made -ism we subscribe to.
I believe in heaven, but who knows? What if when you die there’s nothing? Then you lived your life in anguish for no reason. And you wasted it trying to please something that turned out to be a falsehood. I don’t want to be seen as good. I don’t want to be seen as a saint. I want to be seen as me and I want to be allowed to make mistakes too.
Religion gives those surviving purpose. If you live in poverty or spend your life working yourself to the bone, you may be prone to fantasizing about a peaceful afterlife. I’ve always imagined the afterlife as a wonderland of open fields and endless bounty. It’s probably a tad boring because all that’s left is eternity.
I spent a long part of my life just tolerating it. Or just hustling to the point of having a meltdown.
It’s why I latch onto strong, angry female leads. Furiosa got peace. Beatrix got her daughter. Katniss got her meadow. Even Amy got her twisted version of control. Maybe the real war of pleasure is about putting the weapon down and learning to live. It feels as though I’m in a season of transition. Anger is fun. It is fuel. But it’s so exhausting. It isn’t the whole story.
I take pride in my strength, my resilience. It’s been given to me by people I admire and love the most. It’s taught me how to survive until I knew I was safe. As I change into who I am supposed to be, there are a few tenets of adulthood I am coming to understand.
Trust. You must trust that you can take care of and protect yourself. I’ve done it all my life. There’s no reason to question it now.
Rest. You do not need to collapse in order to justify taking a break.
Joy. It is not a prize you unlock at the end of suffering. It’s in the small, daily acts of choosing yourself.
I don’t know what happens after we die. But I do know what happens if I keep waiting: nothing. I miss my chance. I lose the job opportunity. And then I resent the ones that weren’t as scared as me.
I don’t want to get to the conclusion of my life (if I’m lucky enough to see it coming) with a list titled Things I Would Like To Do Before I Kick The Bucket.
I don’t want a bucket list. I want a life. I want my pleasures and mistakes and small rebellions now, while I still have a body and a heartbeat and friends to call. I don’t need a gold star in heaven; I need a Tuesday afternoon that feels like mine. Maybe that’s what winning the war of pleasure actually looks like: not conquering anything at all, but finally allowing yourself to live.
What if this is heaven?
What if the open field is already under my feet, waiting for me to step in?