Persecution Complex

In its more extreme forms persecution mania is a recognized form of insanity. Some people imagine that others wish to kill them, or imprison them, or to do them some other grave injury. Often the wish to protect themselves against imaginary persecutors leads them into acts of violence which make it necessary to restrain their liberty. This, like many other forms of insanity, is only an exaggeration of a tendency not at all uncommon among people who count as normal. I do not propose to discuss the extreme forms, which are a matter for a psychiatrist. It is the milder forms that I wish to consider, because they are a very frequent cause of unhappiness, and because, not having gone so far as to produce definite insanity, they are still capable of being dealt with by the patient himself, provided he can be induced to diagnose his trouble rightly and to see that its origin lies within himself and not in the supposed hostility or unkindness of others.

In its most extreme forms, the belief that others are persecuting you is a recognized form of mental illness. Some people imagine that others want to kill them, imprison them, or cause them some other serious harm. Often, efforts to protect themselves from imaginary persecutors lead them to violence, making it necessary to restrict their freedom. Like many other forms of mental illness, this condition exaggerates a tendency fairly common among people considered normal. I do not intend to discuss the extreme forms, which are a matter for a psychiatrist. I want to consider the milder forms because they very often cause unhappiness. And because these milder forms have not developed into a definite mental illness, people can still address the problem themselves. But they must first be persuaded to identify their problem correctly. They must also recognize that its source lies within themselves, not in the supposed hostility or unkindness of others.

We are all familiar with the type of person, man or woman, who, according to his own account, is perpetually the victim of ingratitude, unkindness, and treachery. People of this kind are often extraordinarily plausible, and secure warm sympathy from those who have not known them long. There is, as a rule, nothing inherently improbable about each separate story that they relate. The kind of ill-treatment of which they complain does undoubtedly sometimes occur. What in the end rouses the hearer’s suspicions is the multiplicity of villains whom it has been the sufferer’s ill-fortune to meet with. In accordance with the doctrine of probability, different people living in a given society are likely in the course of their lives to meet with about the same amount of bad treatment. If one person in a given set receives, according to his own account, universal ill-treatment, the likelihood is that the cause lies in himself, and that he either imagines injuries from which in fact he has not suffered, or unconsciously behaves in such a way as to arouse uncontrollable irritation. Experienced people therefore become suspicious of those who by their own account are invariably ill-treated by the world; they tend, by their lack of sympathy, to confirm these unfortunate people in the view that everyone is against them. The trouble, in fact, is a difficult one to deal with, since it is inflamed alike by sympathy and by lack of sympathy. The person inclined to persecution mania, when he finds a hard-luck story believed, will embellish it until he reaches the frontier of credibility; when, on the other hand, he finds it disbelieved, he has merely another example of the peculiar hard-heartedness of mankind towards himself. The disease is one that can only be dealt with by understanding, and this understanding must be conveyed to the patient if it is to serve its purpose. My purpose in this chapter is to suggest some general reflections by means of which each individual can detect in himself the elements of persecution mania (from which almost everybody suffers in a greater or less degree), and, having detected them, can eliminate them. This is an important part of the conquest of happiness, since it is quite impossible to be happy if we feel that everybody ill-treats us.

We all know the type of person, man or woman, who claims to be constantly treated with ingratitude, unkindness, and betrayal. Such people often sound extraordinarily convincing and win warm sympathy from those who have not known them long. Usually, no single story they tell is inherently unlikely. The kind of mistreatment they complain about undoubtedly does sometimes happen. What eventually makes listeners suspicious is the sheer number of villains the sufferer has had the misfortune to meet. According to the laws of probability, people living in the same society will likely experience roughly equal amounts of mistreatment. If one person in a group claims that everyone mistreats them, the cause probably lies in that person. They either imagine wrongs they have not actually suffered, or unknowingly behave in ways that provoke uncontrollable irritation. Experienced people therefore grow suspicious of those who claim the world always mistreats them. By withholding sympathy, these listeners tend to reinforce the unfortunate person's belief that everyone is against them. The problem is difficult to handle, because both sympathy and a lack of sympathy make it worse. When someone prone to persecution mania finds that others believe their hard-luck story, they add details until the story is barely believable. But when others disbelieve the story, the person sees another example of humanity's particular hard-heartedness toward them. This illness can only be addressed through understanding. For that understanding to help, it must be communicated to the person suffering from the illness. My purpose in this chapter is to offer some general observations. These observations can help each person recognize signs of persecution mania in themselves and, once recognized, eliminate those signs. Almost everyone suffers from persecution mania to some degree. Recognizing and eliminating these tendencies is an important part of achieving happiness. It is quite impossible to be happy if we feel that everyone mistreats us.

One of the most universal forms of irrationality is the attitude taken by practically everybody towards malicious gossip. Very few people can resist saying malicious things about their acquaintances, and even on occasion about their friends; yet when people hear that anything has been said against themselves, they are filled with indignant amazement. It has apparently never occurred to them that, just as they gossip about everyone else, so everyone else gossips about them. This is a mild form of the attitude which, when exaggerated, leads on to persecution mania. We expect everybody else to feel towards us that tender love and that profound respect which we feel towards ourselves. It does not occur to us that we cannot expect others to think better of us than we think of them, and the reason this does not occur to us is that our own merits are great and obvious, whereas those of others, if they exist at all, are only visible to a very charitable eye. When you hear that so-and-so has said something horrid about you, you remember the ninety-nine times when you have refrained from uttering the most just and well-deserved criticism of him, and forget the hundredth time when in an unguarded moment you have declared what you believe to be the truth about him. Is this the reward, you feel, for all your long forbearance? Yet from his point of view your conduct appears exactly what his appears to you; he knows nothing of the times when you have not spoken, he knows only of the hundredth time when you did speak. If we were all given by magic the power to read each other’s thoughts, I suppose the first effect would be that almost all friendships would be dissolved; the second effect, however, might be excellent, for a world without any friends would be felt to be intolerable, and we should learn to like each other without needing a veil of illusion to conceal from ourselves that we did not think each other absolutely perfect. We know that our friends have their faults, and yet are on the whole agreeable people whom we like. We find it, however, intolerable that they should have the same attitude towards us. We expect them to think that, unlike the rest of mankind, we have no faults. When we are compelled to admit that we have faults, we take this obvious fact far too seriously. Nobody should expect to be perfect, or be unduly troubled by the fact that he is not.

One of the most widespread forms of irrationality is the attitude almost everyone takes toward malicious gossip. Very few people can resist saying malicious things about their acquaintances, and sometimes even about their friends. Yet when people hear that someone has spoken against them, they react with outrage and amazement. Apparently, they have never considered that just as they gossip about everyone else, everyone else gossips about them. This attitude, taken to extremes, leads to the delusion that others are persecuting you. We expect everyone else to feel the tender love and deep respect for us that we feel for ourselves. We never consider that we cannot expect others to think better of us than we think of them. The reason is that our own virtues are great and obvious. Other people’s virtues, if they exist at all, can only be seen by someone willing to be very generous. When you hear that someone has said something horrible about you, you remember your own restraint. Ninety-nine times, you held back from making perfectly fair and well-deserved criticisms of that person. You forget the hundredth time, when you let your guard down and said what you believed was true about them. Is this your reward, you feel, for being so patient for so long? Yet to that person, your behavior looks exactly as their behavior looks to you. They know nothing about the times you said nothing. They know only about the hundredth time, when you did speak. Suppose we were all magically given the power to read each other’s thoughts. I imagine the first result would be the end of almost all friendships. The second result, however, might be excellent. We would find a world without friends unbearable. So we would learn to like each other without needing comforting illusions. We would no longer need those illusions to hide our belief that our friends were not absolutely perfect. We know our friends have faults, yet on the whole they are pleasant people we like. But we find it unbearable that our friends should feel the same way about us. We expect them to think that, unlike everyone else, we have no faults. When we are forced to admit that we have faults, we take this obvious fact far too seriously. Nobody should expect to be perfect or be too troubled by not being perfect.

Persecution mania is always rooted in a too exaggerated conception of our own merits. I am, we will say, a playwright; to every unbiased person it must be obvious that I am the most brilliant playwright of the age. Nevertheless, for some reason, my plays are seldom performed, and when they are, they are not successful. What is the explanation of this strange state of affairs? Obviously that managers, actors, and critics have combined against me for one reason or another. The reason, of course, is highly creditable to myself: I have refused to kow-tow to the great ones of the theatrical world; I have not flattered the critics; my plays contain home truths which are unbearable to those whom they hit. And so my transcendent merit languishes unrecognized.

The belief that others are out to get us is always rooted in an exaggerated view of our own merits. Suppose I am a playwright. Any unbiased person must see that I am the most brilliant playwright of the age. Yet, for some reason, my plays are rarely performed, and when performed, they are not successful. What explains this strange situation? Obviously, theater managers, actors, and critics have joined forces against me for one reason or another. The reason, of course, reflects very well on me. I have refused to bow down to the powerful people in the theater world. I have not flattered the critics. My plays contain uncomfortable truths that the people they target cannot bear. And so my extraordinary talent goes unrecognized.

Then there is the inventor who has never been able to get anyone to examine the merits of his invention; manufacturers are set in their ways and will not consider any innovation, while the few who are progressive keep inventors of their own, who succeed in warding off the intrusions of unauthorized genius; the learned societies, strangely enough, lose one’s manuscripts or return them unread; individuals to whom one appeals are unaccountably unresponsive. How is such a state of affairs to be explained? Obviously there is a close corporation of men who wish to divide among themselves the plums to be obtained by means of invention; the man who does not belong to this close corporation will not be listened to.

Then there is the inventor who has never managed to get anyone to assess his invention’s merits. Manufacturers are set in their ways and will not consider anything new. Meanwhile, the few progressive manufacturers employ their own inventors, who successfully keep unauthorized genius out. Strangely enough, scholarly societies lose his manuscripts or return them unread. The people he appeals to are unresponsive for no apparent reason. How can this state of affairs be explained? Obviously, an exclusive group of men wants to divide the rewards of invention among themselves. Any man outside this exclusive group will not be listened to.

Then there is the man who has a genuine grievance founded upon actual fact, but who generalizes in the light of his experience and arrives at the conclusion that his own misfortune affords the key to the universe; he discovers, let us say, some scandal about the Secret Service which it is to the interest of the Government to keep dark. He can obtain hardly any publicity for his discovery, and the most apparently high-minded men refuse to lift a finger to remedy the evil which fills him with indignation. So far the facts are as he says they are. But his rebuffs have made such an impression upon him that he believes all powerful men to be occupied wholly and solely in covering up the crimes to which they owe their power. Cases of this kind are particularly obstinate, owing to the partial truth of their outlook; the thing that has touched them personally has made, as is natural, more impression upon them than the much larger number of matters of which they have had no direct experience. This gives them a wrong sense of proportion, and causes them to attach undue importance to facts which are perhaps exceptional rather than typical.

Then there is the man who has a genuine grievance based on actual facts. But he generalizes from his experience and concludes that his own misfortune provides the key to understanding the universe. Suppose he uncovers some scandal involving the Secret Service that the Government has an interest in keeping secret. He can get hardly any publicity for his discovery. Even the men who seem most principled refuse to do anything about the wrongdoing that outrages him. So far, the facts are as he describes them. But these rejections have affected him so deeply that he believes all powerful men have only one concern. He thinks they are entirely occupied with covering up the crimes that gave them their power. People with this outlook are particularly hard to persuade otherwise, because their view is partly true. Naturally, their personal experience has affected them more deeply than the far greater number of matters they have not experienced directly. This difference distorts their sense of proportion. It leads them to give too much weight to facts that are perhaps exceptional rather than typical.

Another not uncommon victim of persecution mania is a certain type of philanthropist who is always doing good to people against their will, and is amazed and horrified that they display no gratitude. Our motives in doing good are seldom as pure as we imagine them to be. Love of power is insidious; it has many disguises, and is often the source of the pleasure we derive from doing what we believe to be good to other people. Not infrequently, yet another element enters in. “Doing good” to people generally consists in depriving them of some pleasure: drink, or gambling, or idleness, or what not. In this case there is an element which is typical of much social morality, namely envy of those who are in a position to commit sins from which we have to abstain if we are to retain the respect of our friends. Those who vote, let us say, for a law against cigarette smoking (such laws exist, or existed, in several American States) are obviously non-smokers to whom the pleasure which others derive from tobacco is a source of pain. If they expect those who were previously cigarette fiends to come in a deputation and thank them for emancipation from this odious vice, it is possible that they may be disappointed. They may then begin to reflect that they have given their lives for the public good, and that those who have most reason for thanking them for their beneficent activities appear to be the least aware of any occasion for gratitude.

Another fairly common victim of persecution mania is a certain kind of philanthropist. Such people are always doing good to others against their will, then feel amazed and horrified at receiving no gratitude. Our motives for doing good are seldom as pure as we imagine. The desire for power creeps in unnoticed and takes many forms. It often explains the pleasure we get from doing what we believe is good for others. Quite often, another motive comes into play. “Doing good” to people generally means taking away some pleasure: drinking, gambling, idleness, or something else. This involves a kind of envy typical of much social morality. We envy people who can commit sins we must avoid if we want to keep our friends’ respect. Consider people who vote for a law against cigarette smoking. Such laws exist, or once existed, in several American States. These voters are obviously non-smokers who find other people’s enjoyment of tobacco painful. They may expect formerly devoted cigarette smokers to send a delegation to thank them for freedom from this odious vice. If so, they may be disappointed. They may then start thinking that they have devoted their lives to the public good. Yet those with the most reason to thank them for their good works seem least aware of any reason for gratitude.

One used to find the same kind of attitude on the part of mistresses towards domestic servants whose morals they safeguarded. But in these days the servant problem has become so acute that this form of kindness to maids has become less common.

Women who employed domestic servants once showed the same attitude toward the servants whose morals they guarded. But these days, finding and keeping servants has become so difficult that this kind of kindness to maids is less common.

In the higher walks of politics the same sort of thing occurs. The statesman who has gradually concentrated all power within himself in order that he may be able to carry out the high and noble aims which have led him to eschew comfort and enter the arena of public life, is amazed at the ingratitude of the people when they turn against him. It never occurs to him that his work may have had anything but a public motive, or that the pleasure of controlling affairs may have in any degree inspired his activities. The phrases which are customary on the platform and in the Party Press have gradually come to him to seem to express truths, and he mistakes the rhetoric of partisanship for a genuine analysis of motives. Disgusted and disillusioned, he retires from the world after the world has retired from him, and regrets that he ever attempted so thankless a task as the pursuit of the public good.

The same sort of thing happens at the highest levels of politics. A statesman gradually gathers all power into his own hands to carry out his high and noble aims. Those aims led him to give up comfort and enter public life. When the people turn against him, he is amazed at their ingratitude. He never considers that his work may have had any motive other than serving the public. Nor does he consider that the pleasure of controlling affairs may have played any part in driving his actions. The standard phrases of political speeches and the party press have gradually come to seem true to him. He mistakes partisan rhetoric for a genuine analysis of motives. Disgusted and disillusioned, he withdraws from the world after the world has withdrawn from him. He regrets ever attempting so thankless a task as working for the public good.

These illustrations suggest four general maxims, which will prove an adequate preventive of persecution mania if their truth is sufficiently realized. The first is: remember that your motives are not always as altruistic as they seem to yourself. The second is: don’t over-estimate your own merits. The third is: don’t expect others to take as much interest in you as you do yourself. And the fourth is: don’t imagine that most people give enough thought to you to have any special desire to persecute you. I shall say a few words about each of these maxims in turn.

These examples suggest four general rules. They will prevent the belief that others are persecuting you if you fully recognize their truth. The first is: remember that your motives are not always as selfless as they seem to you. The second is: don’t overestimate your own merits. The third is: don’t expect others to take as much interest in you as you take in yourself. And the fourth is: don’t imagine that most people think about you enough to have any particular desire to persecute you. I will say a little about each of these rules in turn.

Suspicion of one’s own motives is especially necessary for the philanthropist and the executive; such people have a vision of how the world, or some part of it, should be, and they feel, sometimes rightly, sometimes wrongly, that in realizing their vision they will be conferring a boon upon mankind or some section of it. They do not, however, adequately realize that the individuals affected by their operations have each an equal right to his own view as to the sort of world he wants. A man of the executive type is quite sure that his vision is right, and that any contrary one is wrong. But his subjective certainty affords no proof that he is objectively right. Moreover, his belief is very often only a camouflage for the pleasure that he derives from contemplating changes of which he is the cause. And in addition to love of power there is another motive, namely vanity, which operates strongly in such cases. The high-minded idealist who stands for Parliament—on this matter I speak from experience—is astonished by the cynicism of the electorate which assumes that he only desires the glory of writing the letters “M.P.” after his name. When the contest is over and he has time to think, it occurs to him that perhaps after all the cynical electors were in the right. Idealism causes simple motives to wear strange disguises, and therefore some dash of realistic cynicism does not come amiss in our public men. Conventional morality inculcates a degree of altruism of which human nature is scarcely capable, and those who pride themselves upon their virtue often imagine that they attain this unattainable ideal. The immense majority of even the noblest persons’ actions have self-regarding motives, nor is this to be regretted, since, if it were otherwise, the human race could not survive. A man who spent his time seeing that others were fed and forgot to feed himself would perish. He may, of course, take nourishment solely in order to provide himself with the necessary strength to plunge again into the battle against evil, but it is doubtful whether food eaten with this motive could be adequately digested, since the flow of saliva would be insufficiently stimulated. It is better therefore that a man should eat because he enjoys his food than that the time he spends at his meals should be solely inspired by a desire for the public good.

Philanthropists and executives especially need to question their own motives. They have a vision of how the world, or some part of it, should be. They believe that realizing their vision will benefit humanity or some part of it. Sometimes they are right, and sometimes they are wrong. But they fail to recognize that everyone affected by their work has an equal right to their own vision. A person with an executive temperament feels certain that their vision is right and any opposing vision is wrong. But feeling certain does not prove that they are actually right. Moreover, their belief very often just disguises the pleasure they take in imagining changes they themselves bring about. Besides the love of power, vanity is another strong motive in such cases. The high-minded idealist who runs for Parliament is astonished by the voters’ cynicism. I speak from experience here. The voters assume that the candidate only wants the glory of putting the letters “M.P.” after their name. When the election is over and the candidate has time to think, another possibility occurs to them. Perhaps the cynical voters were right after all. Idealism gives simple motives strange disguises. So a touch of realistic cynicism is no bad thing in our public figures. Conventional morality teaches a degree of concern for others that human nature can scarcely achieve. People who pride themselves on their virtue often imagine they have reached this unreachable ideal. The vast majority of even the noblest people’s actions are motivated by concern for themselves. Nor should we regret this, since the human race could not survive otherwise. Someone who spent their time making sure others were fed, but forgot to eat, would die. Of course, they might eat solely to gain the strength needed to return to the battle against evil. But it is doubtful whether food eaten for that reason could be properly digested. The desire to fight evil would not stimulate enough saliva. So it is better to eat because we enjoy our food than to spend mealtimes motivated solely by the public good.

And what applies to eating applies to everything else. Whatever is to be done can only be done adequately by the help of a certain zest, and zest is difficult without some self-regarding motive. I should include among self-regarding motives, from this point of view, those that concern persons biologically connected with oneself, such as the impulse to the defence of wife and children against enemies. This degree of altruism is part of normal human nature, but the degree inculcated in conventional ethics is not, and is very rarely attained genuinely. People who wish to have a high opinion of their own moral excellence have therefore to persuade themselves that they have achieved a degree of unselfishness that it is very unlikely that they have achieved, and hence the endeavour after saintliness comes to be connected with self-deception of a kind that easily leads on to persecution mania.

And what is true of eating is true of everything else. Whatever needs doing can only be done well with a certain enthusiasm. And enthusiasm is difficult without some motive tied to your own interests. From this perspective, I would include concern for people biologically connected to you among such motives. One example is the impulse to defend your wife and children against enemies. This degree of unselfishness is part of normal human nature. But the degree taught by conventional morality is not, and is very rarely genuinely achieved. People who want to think highly of their own moral goodness therefore have to convince themselves of their unselfishness. They must believe they have reached a degree of unselfishness they are very unlikely to have reached. So the effort to become saintly becomes linked to self-deception of a particular kind. This kind of self-deception can easily lead to delusions of persecution.

The second of our four maxims, to the effect that it is unwise to over-estimate your own merits, is covered, so far as morals are concerned, by what we have already said. But merits other than moral should equally not be over-estimated. The playwright whose plays never succeed should consider calmly the hypothesis that they are bad plays; he should not reject this out of hand as obviously untenable. If he finds that it fits the facts, he should, as an inductive philosopher, adopt it. It is true that there are in history cases of unrecognized merit, but they are far less numerous than the cases of recognized demerit. If a man is a genius whom the age will not recognize, he is quite right to persist in his course in spite of lack of recognition. If, on the other hand, he is an untalented person puffed up with vanity, he will do well not to persist. There is no way of knowing to which of these two categories one belongs if one is afflicted with the impulse to produce unrecognized masterpieces. If you belong to the one category, your persistence is heroic; if to the other, ludicrous. When you have been dead a hundred years, it will be possible to guess to which category you belonged. In the meantime, there is a test, not perhaps infallible, but yet of considerable value, which you may apply yourself if you suspect that you are a genius while your friends suspect that you are not. The test is this: do you produce because you feel an urgent compulsion to express certain ideas or feelings, or are you actuated by the desire for applause? In the genuine artist the desire for applause, while it usually exists strongly, is secondary, in the sense that the artist wishes to produce a certain kind of work, and hopes that that work may be applauded, but will not alter his style even if no applause is forthcoming. The man, on the other hand, to whom the desire for applause is the primary motive, has no force within himself urging him to a particular kind of expression, and could therefore just as well do work of some wholly different kind. Such a man, if he fails to win applause by his art, had better give it up. And, speaking more generally, whatever your line in life may be, if you find that others do not rate your abilities as highly as you do yourself, do not be too sure that it is they who are mistaken. If you allow yourself to think this, you may easily fall into the belief that there is a conspiracy to prevent the recognition of your merit, and this belief is pretty sure to be the source of an unhappy life. To recognize that your merit is not so great as you had hoped may be more painful for a moment, but it is a pain which has an end, beyond which a happy life again becomes possible.

Our second rule says that it is unwise to overestimate your own merits. We have already covered this rule as far as moral qualities are concerned. But you should not overestimate your other merits either. A playwright whose plays never succeed should calmly consider the possibility that the plays are bad. The playwright should not dismiss that possibility out of hand as obviously impossible. If the explanation fits the facts, the playwright should accept it, as a philosopher who reasons from evidence would. History does contain cases of unrecognized merit. But cases of recognized lack of merit are far more common. If someone is a genius whom their age will not recognize, they are quite right to keep going despite that neglect. If, however, they lack talent and are full of vanity, they would do well to stop. If you feel driven to produce unrecognized masterpieces, there is no way to know which of these groups you belong to. If you belong to the first group, your persistence is heroic. If you belong to the second, it is ridiculous. A hundred years after your death, people will be able to guess which group you belonged to. Meanwhile, you can apply a test if you suspect you are a genius but your friends suspect you are not. The test may not be foolproof, but it still has considerable value. Do you create because you feel an urgent need to express certain ideas or feelings? Or are you driven by a desire for applause? A genuine artist usually has a strong desire for applause, but that desire comes second. The artist wants to create a particular kind of work and hopes that work will win applause. But the artist will not change their style even if no applause comes. By contrast, someone whose main motive is applause has no inner force driving them toward a particular kind of expression. Such a person could therefore just as well do something entirely different. If their art fails to win applause, they had better give it up. More generally, whatever you do in life, others may rate your abilities less highly than you do. If they do, do not be too sure that they are wrong. If you let yourself think others are wrong, you may easily come to believe in a conspiracy against you. You may believe people are conspiring to keep your merits from being recognized. That belief is almost certain to make your life unhappy. Recognizing that your merits are not as great as you hoped may hurt more for a moment. But that pain comes to an end, and afterward a happy life becomes possible again.

Our third maxim was not to expect too much of others. It used to be customary for invalid ladies to expect at least one of their daughters to sacrifice themselves completely in performing the duties of a nurse, even to the extent of forgoing marriage. This is to expect of another a degree of altruism which is contrary to reason, since the loss to the altruist is greater than the gain to the egoist. In all your dealings with other people, especially with those who are nearest and dearest, it is important and not always easy to remember that they see life from their own angle and as it touches their own ego, not from your angle and as it touches yours. No person should be expected to distort the main lines of his life for the sake of another individual. On occasion there may exist such a strong affection that even the greatest sacrifices become natural, but if they are not natural they should not be made, and no person should be held blameworthy for not making them. Very often the conduct that people complain of in others is not more than the healthy reaction of natural egoism against the grasping rapacity of a person whose ego extends beyond its proper limits.

Our third rule was not to expect too much of others. Women with chronic illnesses once commonly expected at least one daughter to devote herself entirely to nursing them. The daughter was even expected to give up marriage. Such extreme selflessness is unreasonable, because the person making the sacrifice loses more than the selfish person gains. In all your dealings with others, remember that they see life from their own perspective and through their own interests. They do not see life from your perspective or through your interests. Remembering this is important, and not always easy, especially with those nearest and dearest to you. No one should be expected to reshape the main course of their life for another person’s sake. Sometimes affection may be so strong that even the greatest sacrifices come naturally. But if such sacrifices do not come naturally, they should not be made. And no one should be blamed for not making them. Very often, the behavior people complain about in others is simply a healthy expression of natural self-interest. It is a reaction against the grasping greed of someone whose self-interest has overstepped its proper bounds.

The fourth maxim that we mentioned consists of realizing that other people spend less time in thinking about you than you do yourself. The insane victim of persecution mania imagines that all sorts of people, who, in fact, have their own avocations and interests, are occupied morning, noon, and night in an endeavour to work a mischief to the poor lunatic. In like manner, the comparatively sane victim of persecution mania sees in all kinds of actions a reference to himself which does not, in fact, exist. This idea, of course, is flattering to his vanity. If he were a great enough man, it might be true. The actions of the British Government for many years were mainly concerned to thwart Napoleon. But when a person of no special importance imagines that others are perpetually thinking about him, he is on the road towards insanity. You make a speech, let us say, at some public dinner. Photographs of some of the other speakers appear in the picture papers, but there is no picture of you. How is this to be accounted for? Obviously not because the other speakers were considered more important; it must be because the editors of the papers had given orders that you were to be ignored. And why should they have given such orders? Obviously because they feared you on account of your great importance. In this way the omission of your picture is transformed from a slight into a subtle compliment. But self-deception of this kind cannot lead to any solid happiness. In the back of your mind you will know that the facts are otherwise, and in order to conceal this from yourself as far as possible, you will have to invent more and more fantastic hypotheses. The strain of trying to believe these will, in the end, become very great. And since, moreover, they involve the belief that you are the object of widespread hostility, they will only safeguard your self-esteem by inflicting the very painful feeling that you are at odds with the world. No satisfaction based upon self-deception is solid, and, however unpleasant the truth may be, it is better to face it once for all, to get used to it, and to proceed to build your life in accordance with it.

The fourth principle we mentioned is to recognize that other people spend less time thinking about you than you do. Someone with a severe persecution delusion imagines that all sorts of people are busy trying to harm him, morning, noon, and night. In fact, those people have their own activities and interests. Similarly, a comparatively sane person with persecution delusions sees all kinds of actions as directed at him when they are not. This belief, of course, flatters his vanity. If he were important enough, the belief might be true. For many years, the British Government’s actions were mainly aimed at frustrating Napoleon’s plans. But when someone of no particular importance imagines that others are constantly thinking about him, he is heading toward insanity. Suppose you give a speech at a public dinner. Photographs of some of the other speakers appear in the illustrated newspapers, but no photograph of you appears. How do you explain your absence? Obviously, not by admitting that the other speakers were considered more important. The newspaper editors must have ordered their staff to ignore you. And why would the editors give such orders? Obviously, because your great importance made them afraid of you. In this way, the absence of your photograph turns from a slight into a subtle compliment. But self-deception of this kind cannot bring lasting happiness. Deep down, you will know that the facts are different. To hide the truth from yourself as much as possible, you will have to invent increasingly far-fetched explanations. Eventually, the strain of trying to believe these explanations will become very great. Besides, these explanations require you to believe that many people are hostile toward you. So they will protect your self-esteem only by making you feel painfully at odds with the world. No satisfaction based on self-deception is secure. However unpleasant the truth may be, you are better off facing it once and for all. Then you can get used to the truth and go on to build your life around it.