Editor’s note: Former State University of New York at Fredonia professor and OBSERVER columnist George Sebouhian was preparing to write his life story when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2013. He died three years later, having left behind hundreds of pages of research notes, poems and memoir vignettes. His son, Damian Sebouhian, has taken it upon himself to complete and share his writings through a series of theme-based articles, each of which represents a chapter in the life and times of George Sebouhian, in his own words.

By GEORGE SEBOUHIAN

Edited by Damian Sebouhian

I went back to the States in late summer, 1953; the war was over. I was assigned to Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas, Nevada, working as a file clerk, somewhat like the job I had in Korea, but without thought or planning, keeping track of supplies related to maintenance of the planes. Slowly the poison of boredom began to creep into my system. One day, sitting at my place posting data I was overcome by the terrible urge to get the hell out of there — and did.

I left without mentioning anything to the supervisor and walked around for about 30 minutes until I got bored with that and headed back to the office. Shortly after that one night with some buddies at a fast food place on the base I got into an argument with a guy I felt was a close friend. He accused me in front of all at the table of contradicting myself. The argument was a silly one having to do with my favorite subject, how do you determine what is real, but his accusation struck me like the thrust of a dagger into my stomach. I jumped up from my chair and left as quickly as I could without looking at anyone. I walked quickly back to the barracks.

It was a quiet Friday night, dark, no lights on except those in the latrine, and no one at their bunks. I went to my footlocker, took out my tote bag, found my razor blades, pulled out one, holding it between thumb and index finger of my right hand, put everything else back in place, hurried into the latrine, looked briefly at my face in the mirror, then brought the razor down twice across my left wrist, adding two or three cuts above the wrist hunting for a vein.

As quickly as possible I changed the razor to my left hand and cut my right wrist three or four times. I was shaking all over, bawling like a baby, but feeling no pain; what grabbed my attention was seeing the flesh of my wrists part and open like a pained mouth.

Calmer, I walked to my bunk, lay down with my hands hanging over the metal edges. Guys came in later, but no lights, though I could hear my blood dripping onto the floor. I dozed a bit, the barracks were quiet again, very dark except for the street lights throwing odd shadows on the walls and floor. Coming awake I wondered about the experience of dying, but try as I would, I couldn’t imagine, nor could I summon up thoughts about the meaning of life and death which I expected to be the climax of my cutting; I felt absolutely normal, thinking only of missing breakfast, wondering what they would have.

During the night I got up to try to hide the blood and used my fatigues to wipe it up.

The next morning I was still alive, but feeling nothing; I waited till others left, no one said anything to me. Only later did I realize that letting my wrists dangle over the sides of the bed provided an effective tourniquet, so the blood could clot and keep from spilling all out.

I had never been to jail, but when I entered the hospital, heard the steel doors clang, saw the barred windows, had all my personal belongings taken from me, I felt that I had been imprisoned — for my own good they insisted.

But it wasn’t for my good, at least that is the view I took. The psychologists/psychiatrists who examined me had to have only one main purpose, to get me back to work as a “fit” airman. They did not deny this when I refused further treatment and insisted that I be returned to my outfit. Based on the lie that I told them, that my four-year enlistment would be up within six months (it was more than a year and a half away), they agreed.

As soon as I could when I returned to the base I talked a buddy of mine into joining me in a suicide pact. He played the guitar and sang mournful country music — which had me close to tears most of the time. One Saturday evening we went to a pawn shop, bought a pistol. And then went to a bar for some beers. A prostitute joined us, but the talk only depressed us more. When we felt ready, we walked to an alley, took out the pistol, and suddenly realized, then, at this impossible moment, that we had no ammunition — and the stores were closed.

We laughed a little, but without much feeling. I hid the pistol on the base only to find several days later that it was gone. And that was the end of that episode, except for one more attempt that was more of a dare than it was a decision to eliminate myself. I wanted to see whether aspirin would do the job. It didn’t. I was sick — nauseous for several days, to the amusement of one of my friends who witnessed the ingestion session.

My last year in the Air Force was my best. I had among the several chosen to attend IBM school in Riverside California in preparation to transfer the manual maintenance of the flight line inventory to an electronic one; involving computers and punch cards; in other words, we were in on the dawn of the computer age. This proved to be the only challenging job I had in the Service, one I enjoyed and excelled at — so much so that when I was discharged, I was offered a job in IBM to help Bank of America computerize its records. I turned it down because, as I told them, I wanted to go back to college, not for vocational purposes, but for an education — that’s all I wanted, yearned for, to be educated, to study philosophy, psychology, religion, and learn some languages. They offered to send me to school at night, but I wanted to focus primarily on education, not on a full-time job with school squeezed in at night.

Coming November: Family calls.

Damian Sebouhian, a former OBSERVER staff writer, is a Dunkirk resident.