Philosophy As (Useful) Pain

I recently learned a fascinating new term: benign masochism. It refers to behaviour and experiences that we initially think will give us the willies (or worse), but then later turn out to be enjoyable. There are obviously a lot more complexities to it (and I’m not a scientist), but it encompasses things like developing a fondness for spicy food, doing an intense workout, or going out of our way to watch scary or sad movies. Interesting, right?

There are lists of examples out there, and I rifled through them. It turns out, I don’t tick a lot of boxes in this category. While many people find ways to look beyond perceived threats or danger to find something exciting and, in the end, fun, I tend to stick to what’s immediately comfortable. I don’t gravitate towards thrills, chills and spills. I’m just not into that stuff. I want cinnamon buns, a throw blanket, and a nap. I am genuinely happy sitting in an art gallery, reading satire, or having a laugh with a friend. My taste in music might be considered kind of painful by some, but I think it might just be loud and tacky.

To be honest, I was a little disappointed in myself, maybe even a little bored. Surely there was something in my life that was benignly masochistic, even just a tiny bit? Wasn’t there something painful or irritating to which I was drawn?

And then, my mind wandered right over the fact that I’m a philosopher. My profession, and more importantly, my mindset, revolve around asking difficult, uncomfortable questions, and spending considerable time looking for answers to them. I do this on purpose, and have done for the better part of three decades. I studied philosophy for years at school, then I taught it, and now I write about it. I have both training and experience in picking away at the meaning of stuff.

So, is this my version of sky diving or suicide hot wings? Is this the thing that seems icky at first, but I still power through with it because in the end, it puts a twinkle in my eye? Yes, and no. Sort of. It’s complicated.

It needs to be noted that not all the things that philosophy brings to the surface are fun or enjoyable, even after years of practice.  Sure, when I do philosophy with kids, I pick out the cool, playful stuff to cover, all in the name of helping them develop thinking skills. If I’m honest, the grown-up version of philosophy can be downright bleak. Even on a very good day, it’s ambiguous and time-consuming. Overall, it does make me feel better (sort of), but I wouldn’t say it makes me feel good. If I’m doing philosophy just for the buzz, then I’m an epic failure at it.

Unlike most of the options on the benign masochism menu, philosophy isn’t a discrete, finite experience. You don’t set aside time or make a reservation to do it, and you don’t have to plan or go anywhere. It’s not a temporary diversion from reality, it’s something one does to keep closer ties to reality. I’ll never know what it’s like to be done philosophy because there’s no off switch. The point of it isn’t to get to a particular junction. It’s a commitment, to say the least.

So, if being philosophical doesn’t promise any sort of delight, and it demands so much of my time and mental real estate, then what’s the point? Why not elect to be another happy wanderer, and just turn it off? Well, while there are many forms of benign masochism that I can take or leave, I don’t think I could manage to not do philosophy (which maybe makes it sound like an addiction, but that’s another discussion). I can’t fathom living or functioning in this world, this life, without being able/allowed to pull it apart and take a better look at it. I need things to make sense, or at least have the possibility of things making more sense than they presently do. I need to know that I’m not arbitrarily or absentmindedly overlooking some new or potentially useful idea. For me, living philosophically is, in fact, “the good life”. It’s not necessarily thrilling or joyful every day, maybe not even pleasant, but this examined life is it for me. To live differently would feel like I was locking myself in a dark room or holding my breath or not drinking water.

That, to me, smacks of just plain old, regular masochism, and I’m not into that either.