Occasionally I Contemplate Murder. Book by Stefan Stenudd.

Occasionally I Contemplate Murder 7

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A young friend of mine had another way of treating his life disrespectfully.

At the age of eighteen, he had a baby with his equally young girlfriend. He was mighty proud and fully prepared to dedicate the rest of his years to the well-being of this child.

It seems his girlfriend had other plans. She threw him out of their apartment, suddenly indifferent to his love and care.

A few weeks after that, the baby died.

For no apparent medical reason. Although rarely, such things do happen. Voluntary death, they call it. The kid just let go of its life, and the doctors could do nothing to retrieve it.

That's when my friend lost his respect for life.

He fell into a depression. A strange kind of depression, in such a way that he was always able to talk about it.

He spoke ironically, almost self-mockingly, about how sad his life had become, how impossible it was for him to feel happy. No hope. And he smiled while telling me.

It became as casual as any conventional greeting:

How are you today? Just rotten, thank you.

Of course it bothered me, but the fact that he readily talked about it, made consoling him much more difficult than had he not. What to say to somebody who knows all too well what's wrong?

That's life.

Increasingly, he showed signs of treating life the same way his infant son had done — letting it go.

He drank some, hung around some, and nothing happened. Now and then, he made halfhearted approaches to girls his age, but soon retreated. He would not let life get a firm grip on him again, wouldn't let anything tempt him into a renewed enthusiasm.

He began mistreating his body in such a way that he stumbled around even when only mildly drunk. Never watching his step, not showing the least care for his own person.

He rapidly became what is called accident-prone. Soon enough, the accident arrived.

At a party, when he opened the window to throw some beer up, he lost his balance and fell.

The apartment was three stories up. My young friend hit the ground — not hard enough to die, but enough to become severely crippled for the rest of his life. He can still show his broad grin, but not much more of the body obeys him.

Yet, he keeps on making jokes about it all.

I wonder why he didn't die. Didn't he want to, was he too ambiguous about it?

Somehow, I get the feeling that he crippled his body to this extent, just to disable it as a tool for suicide, were he ever to succumb to that wish.

Yes, maybe that's it. Maybe he never seriously considered suicide, deep inside, but was so wary of the risk of one day reconsidering, this was his method of preventing it.

Disarming himself.

Well, it worked. Not only has he made it next to impossible to execute the necessary steps for committing suicide, but he's also found immediate problems to occupy his mind.

It's not happiness, I guess. Still, it works pretty well, so far.

That's life.

J esus, the very prophet to insist on walking straight to Golgotha, although very well aware of the outcome — should not he find it in his heart to tolerate suicide? Even to respect it.

It's a thing to pity. But to punish?

On the other hand, looking at it from the viewpoint of the Gods, I can see the reason for their intolerance. To them, suicide is nothing but murder.

Of course it is. If we're all a Creator God's handicrafts, and He is our father, then we're killing children of His, even if it is ourselves.

To Him, it really makes no difference whose hand performs the stabbing — a life of His creation is taken.

Yes, our free will, the conscious mind, is something else than the living body, one must admit. If not altogether expelled from the bosom of our Creator God, the conscious mind is a bit separated from it.

By the same line of reasoning the body is not.

Therefore, strictly speaking, in so-called suicide, a stranger is forcing his will upon the innocent body, the God child, who has no say in it.

One must admit, no matter how decided the conscious mind is to commit suicide, the body never agrees.

So, in the perspective of a Creator God, it is a murder, like any other.

God is firm. Don't mess with His children.

I would appreciate His concern more, though, if He could be just a trifle preventive. That's no more than any other parent tries to be.

Oh, Mighty One — where are you when we really need you?

Coming to think of it — where are you?


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Occasionally I Contemplate Murder. Book by Stefan Stenudd.

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Occasionally I Contemplate Murder
by 2006, 2011,2015
Paperback, 124 pages
Arriba Publ.
ISBN: 978-1-5142-2337-6

The same book in Swedish

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