Seneca, On Peace of Mind 1.13

I beg you, therefore, if you have any remedy by which you could stop this vacillation of mine, to deem me worthy to owe my peace of mind to you.

I am well aware that these oscillations of mind are not perilous and that they threaten me with no serious disorder. To express what I complain of by an exact simile, I am not suffering from a storm, but from seasickness. Take from me, then, this evil, whatever it may be, and help one who is in distress within sight of land.

I have finally come to realize that most of those who say they will help, even when they promise it with the finest words, will not help at all. This is difficult for me, because I would like to think the best of human nature.

I still hope that people will find understanding and compassion within their souls, but I no longer expect it. My own failures at understanding and compassion, due to my own narrow sense of self, should be the first things to remind me that I cannot demand what I have failed to give. There’s nothing like knowing you have been a bastard for you to offer sympathy to all the other bastards.

I have asked people to give me assistance more often than I can count, and I have stood there abandoned more often than I can count. I have struggled to not become bitter, and to rather become more accepting and forgiving. The Golden Rule demands no less.

Yet I cringe when I read Serenus’ appeal. He is, as they say, putting himself “out there”, revealing a weakness within himself. How easy it would be to throw a tired platitude his way, and then to ignore him completely. That’s the pattern I’m most used to.

“Oh, don’t worry. It will be just fine.” “Have you prayed about it?” “Hey, we all have problems, right? What makes you so special?”

Serenus asks with urgency, even as he admits that he is not in an existential crisis. He suffers from a lingering malaise, not from some life-threatening danger. He will not necessarily lose his whole character, though he feels it being gnawed at constantly.

He is seasick, not drowning.

Nevertheless, his need is real. The death by a thousand cuts can be far more troubling than the executioner’s axe. Give me light, or give me darkness, but I can’t bear this constant grayness.

As he makes this appeal, I can only feel with him. I know exactly where he is coming from, being neither here nor there, with just enough spirit to live, and not enough spite to die. These are the folks we too often overlook, those who are in between. They cry out, and we look the other way.

Seneca was hardly a perfect man, caught in all sorts of silly political machinations back in his time, but he had the decency to give Serenus a thoughtful and caring reply. He wasn’t great because he wrote fine books, or rubbed shoulders with the rich and powerful, but because he chose to help his friends.

Written in 4/2011