"Why Don't You Like Me, Daddy?" is a courageous story about the cause and effects of physical and verbal child abuse. The cause is most likely from bipolar disorder; The Effects are explained by the author and the many behaviors that lead up to his diagnoses.
Stereotyping mental illness is bullying in the authors opinion. His hope is if you ever need someone to talk to that you seek some consultation. Consultation can be very healthy in any situation, friend, colleague, professional, but you should never be afraid to express how you are feeling.
The Author's father had proud moments of him throughout his life but his father never liked him and he will never know why. So how do you deal with that? The author explains how he is dealing with that.
It is the authors hope that if you are bipolar or have PTSD that you stay on your medication until you are better. If you know someone that has experienced these situations it is hoped that you will understand them a little better.
|Product dimensions:||6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.18(d)|
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"Why Don't You Like Me Daddy?"A memoir
By Carl A. Farmer
AuthorHouseCopyright © 2012 Carl A. Farmer, MBA
All right reserved.
Chapter OneChildhood Memories
On that Easter Sunday in Indianapolis, Indiana, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. My father had purchased a brand-new white suit for me, and he was so proud of the way I looked in it. As usual, I was dressed and ready much earlier than the rest of the family; as a little boy I could not sit still. Our neighbor cleaned furnaces for a living, and his truck was parked in his driveway. Being the curious little boy I was back then, I needed to see what was in the back of that truck. Needless to say I climbed in and found all kinds of cool, black soot. When I came out, I was solid black from head to toe. I ran home terrified; my mother later said, "You could only see the whites of your eyes." Boy, was I in trouble.
The thing I remember most about this situation was my father's anger. He said, "Get in the backyard right now!" He unwound the garden hose and had me remove all my clothes. The water wasn't the worst of this experience; that was when my sisters rounded up the neighbor girls to take a look at their naked brother. I was embarrassed as the girls pointed at me and said, "Look at his little willy!" At least that's what I thought I heard. I swear this is the reason I can't pee in front of anyone to this day.
If things weren't exciting enough that Easter Sunday, my mother wanted to change dresses because the one she had on was too hot. My father thought that was ridiculous and would only make us late for church. The next thing I knew, my father was standing in the kitchen over my mother, punching her in the face; her head sounded like a hollow pumpkin being tapped with a spoon. My mother was in the front yard in her brassiere and skirt, bleeding from her lip. The neighbors quickly came to her rescue and herded her into their home. My mother said that the neighbor, Gale, asked her to come to the window to look at what her husband was doing after that. He said, "Looks like he's checking the oil in his car as though nothing happened."
What I later thought strange was my reaction to these abusive events; I was able to forget them almost instantly.
I played little league baseball every spring, and this made my father very proud. He'd always tell me, "You're going to make the major leagues one day ... you have natural ball movement." These were moments I treasured with my father.
My father worked as a quality control manager at Balkamp on the westside of Indianapolis and would wake up around four thirty A.M. every day most of his life. He'd fix himself coffee and read the newspaper, and sometimes he'd fix us breakfast. He had odd jobs for all of us on weekends after breakfast. One of my many jobs was to pull weeds in our gravel driveway, and boy, were there a lot of weeds! I'd come into the house and announce that I'd finished my chore, and he'd ask, "Are you absolutely sure?" I'd say yes, and then it was time for his inspection. He'd look at the driveway and notice a couple weeds I'd missed and start yelling, "You've got to be kidding me! What the hell have you been doing all this time? You'll never amount to shit. You're going to be a trashman when you grow older because you can't do such a simple job as pulling weeds! If this hasn't been done correctly by the time I get back, I'm gonna beat your ass, you little cocksucker."
Years later I made my dad proud by working one summer for Republic Waste Management driving a truck and picking up recycling bins. I'd come full circle, but those insulting comments proved to be a breaking point for me later in life.
I attended Public School 103 in Indianapolis, Indiana, and was in seventh grade in August, 1970. That year a bully I'll name "Mark Bamberger" picked on me almost every day. My father found out and said, "If you let him kick your butt, then I'm going to kick your ass when you get home. If he's bigger than you, then you need to find an equalizer-a bat, stick, something."
That great advice darn near got me killed. One day, as class was letting out around lunchtime, Mark decided to knock my books out of my hands. I turned to Mark to mouth off something and boom! Before I knew it Mark had me up in the air with his arm around my neck, choking me to death. I remember my eyes felt like they were going to pop out and a lot of people trying to get him to let go. I was one of the smallest kids in my class; I think Mark might have been sixteen in the seventh grade, and he was a very muscular kid. The teachers tried to get him to release me, but they couldn't. My older sister busted through the crowd and began kicking Mark in the groin. They said "Debbie!" but my older sister saved my life. I didn't know what happened because I was out cold and woke up in the hospital. It was not long after this that my parents decided we needed to move somewhere less violent.
Chapter TwoAn Out-of-Body Experience
In August, 1971, my family moved to a three-bedroom ranch home on twenty-three acres of beautifully wooded land. It was very hilly, and you could not see even the nearest neighbor's house. To get to our property you had to drive a half mile to the end of a gravel road. We purchased a horse, three chickens and a rooster; we named the horse Daisy. We were all excited about our fresh start in Spearsville, in Brown County, Indiana. Mom and Dad said, "The reason we moved was because of the busing situation in Indianapolis," and that was what we'd tell people when they asked us why we'd moved.
I remember during our first week in Brown County how nice all the neighbors were. They stopped by to introduce themselves and to see if there was anything we needed. A farmer came by and asked my mother if any of us kids would like to help pick beans and tomatoes on his farm; he'd pay us a dollar for every bushel we picked. We all said yes.
The next morning I woke up to the sound of Homer Oliver, the farmer, saying "Get up. It's time to pick beans." Mom had let him come in and wake all of us kids up at 5:00. We thought since Dad had to drive thirty miles to work in Indianapolis from our house, we might finally get to sleep in on our summer break, but no such luck. Homer taught us how to pick beans, and I quickly caught on. I could pick beans quicker than anyone else, something I was very proud of.
I loved our new home. My father and I worked every weekend clearing brush and cutting up fallen trees to clear our land. He and I formed a great bond; he was very proud of how hard I worked alongside him.
The only thing I missed during our first couple of years in Brown County was baseball. The school didn't have organized baseball for seventh and eighth graders.
My junior high years are a complete blur to me to this day. By freshmen year my father and I had just about completed the cleanup of our land, and my father thought it a good idea for me to get a job. I landed a job washing dishes at the Nashville House in Nashville, and I also joined the high school baseball team thanks to my older sister Debbie. I didn't think I was good enough to play after having missed two years. As I was getting on the school bus to go home on the day of baseball tryouts; Debbie jumped on the bus and made me get off and go to tryouts. She even had my baseball glove. I'm so grateful for her pushing me. I adjusted my work schedule at the restaurant so I could play and work.
School was a breeze. We had a class called outdoor education during which we played ping-pong in the winter and fished in the spring. Things seemed to be going very well for me.
One evening, my father picked me up from my job, a rare event, as most of the time I hitchhiked home. We were driving home on Highway 135 when my father asked, "Did you get paid today?" I said yes," and my father demanded my paycheck. I refused. He reached across me and opened the passenger door on his '68 Mustang, took his foot off the gas, and brought it up to my left side and kicked me out onto the side of the highway. I have no idea how I survived. I rolled head over heels and luckily didn't hit a sign or tree. I looked up and saw the white reverse lights coming back at me. I wasn't sure if he was going to run me over or what. The door swung open as the car backed up beside me. He said, "Get your ass in the car." I remember him lecturing me all the way home, but I have no memory of what he said.
When we got home I told my mother what had happened. She told my father, "You've got to be kidding! What were you thinking?" My father grabbed me and demanded my check again. My mother told me, "You don't have to give your check to him. That's what his mother made him do when he was younger."
I went to my room. I seem to remember that my mother paid dearly for protecting me, but I can't remember exactly what happened. I do know it wasn't good.
My mother was cheating on my father during most of my life, her way of coping with my father's abuse. My father knew something was going on, and whenever Bud called and my father picked up the phone, Bud wouldn't say anything. My father would start screaming at my mom, "Who is that? Is that that son-of-a-bitch boyfriend of yours?"
I loved Brown County, and I was able to get lost in the woods and forget all the screaming and yelling. I had a German Shepherd, my best friend, and we spent a lot of time together in the woods. I also loved my father and respected his loyalty to my mother and how hard he worked. I felt his positives outweighed the negatives until summer 1974.
I had a job mowing our church's graveyard. I pushed a mower and carried a gallon of gas five miles each way when the graveyard needed mowing. The graveyard was a pain to mow because I had to go around hundreds of headstones and trim around each one with hand clippers because I didn't have an electric or gas weedeater.
One summer day the temperature was ninety-five degrees, and you could see those heat waves coming off the road. As I was finishing mowing, I saw my mother pulling up to the church, coming to rescue me from the heat. She handed me a cold drink. She and I started loading the mower in the trunk, and somehow I smashed my finger. I think I cussed, but for some reason, the way my sister Debbie and I remember it, my mother thought I'd raised my hand to hit her. She told me to wait until she told my father I tried to hit her. I was terrified. My father wasn't due home for at least four hours, and I wasn't to go anywhere until he came home.
For some reason Dad got home at four, much earlier than usual. I was in my bedroom when I heard him yell, "Carl, get your ass out here." He ordered me to the shed and said, "I'm going to show you what happens when you even act like you're going to hit your mother. Bend over and grab that sawhorse." He began to hit me over and over with a belt. I'd built up a tolerance for the belt and did not scream much, but that was when he started hitting me with the belt buckle, across my back and legs. I screamed at the top of my lungs for him to stop. My mother, sisters, and brother began screaming for him to stop. He said, "You haven't seen anything yet." He picked up a two by four and started hitting me on my back. That was when I found myself in my mind leaning against the tree right behind him, watching him beat me; I looked at the top of the hill and noticed my family yelling. I was having an out-of-body experience. I decided that was going to be the last time he'd ever hit me.
That night my mother came into my room and said we were going to leave the son of a bitch in a couple of days. She said, "I just needed some time to get things organized." My legs were solid black with bruises, and I didn't speak for at least three days. Just recently my sister told me, "I thought you were dead because they wouldn't let me go into your room. I pleaded with Mom and Dad to let me in to talk to you."
That summer, just as mother had promised, all five of us kids got into our six-cylinder green panel truck we called the Green Monster. My mother drove to my bank in Morgantown to withdrawal all of my four hundred dollars. We needed it because Dad never let Mom have more than a few dollars, and since she was a stay-at-home mother, she didn't have an income. We picked up my money and drove for about an hour and a half to a campground, McCormick Creek. We walked up to a really neat-looking log lodge. You could see a large fireplace and mounted deer heads all over the place. After Mom paid for our cabin, we settled in for the night.
Mom had picked up some food, I think it was McDonalds. The evening flew by, and before I knew it we were climbing into bed. That night we had the most beautiful thunderstorm. I was still shocked from the beating I'd experienced just three days earlier, and the thunderstorm put me at ease. I was relaxed, and I slept peacefully.
Two days later Mom was running out of money. She decided she had to go back to my father because it was the only way she could provide for us.
Chapter ThreeScarlet Fever
When we returned from McCormick Creek, my sister Debbie said that Dad had tried to buy her things to make things better but she'd refused them. I knew I couldn't live with my father. I ran away from home and ended up living with a nearby family, the Hatfields. I'm not sure how I ended up with them, but I felt very safe there. They had their own sawmill and had built their home from the boards they'd produced. One look at the house and you could tell it was handmade. It had two stories and a wood-burning stove. I continued to go to school and saw my sisters and brother every day. My father didn't try to find me or persuade me to move back home for fear of having me press charges.
Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield drank a lot; Mr. Hatfield liked Seagram's and Coke, and Mrs. Hatfield liked gin and 7 Up. They'd always fix me a couple of drinks before I went to bed. One day, when Mr. Hatfield had been drinking heavily, he found out I was stealing his cigarettes, he chased me down the driveway with a shotgun, yelling at me "Run, you little freeloading bastard." Obviously that was the end of my stay with the Hatfield's.
I used to shoot pool at a little pool hall in Bean Blossom, a small town nearby. Off to the side of the pool hall was an abandoned limousine, its doors always open. That was my new home for a while; I'd sleep in the backseat, get up early, and walk the five or six miles to school.
A gentleman named Mr. Fuller approached me one day. He'd heard that I'd been sleeping in the limousine. He offered me a place to stay as long as I continued to go to school and work on his farm; this was all much better than my living arrangements at the time. He made a place for me in the rafters of his barn and let me drive his Chevy Love pickup to and from school even though I was just fifteen and had only a learner's permit. I'd load the truck with tomatoes and take them to the farmers' market in Indianapolis. Mr. Fuller let me keep the money I made from selling the tomatoes, and I'd quickly spend the money at Dairy Queen on my buddies.
Later during the summer, Mr. Fuller's wife found me passed out in the tomato patch. Mr. Fuller rushed me to the hospital, where it was discovered I had scarlet fever. Mr. Fuller and the hospital contacted my mother, who picked me up. She said that I needed to come home with her so she could take care of me.
My family had moved to Greenwood, Indiana, during summer 1975. Being with my father was the last thing I wanted to do. After I recovered from my illness, I enrolled for my senior year at Center Grove High School in Greenwood, Indiana. My sister had graduated a year earlier, and for some reason my dad dared me to drop out of school because it was a waste of time; he said that I'd never amount to anything. So, needing just one credit hour my final semester, I thought I'd make his dream come true. I dropped out of school.
My Grandpa Farmer thought it would be a good idea for me to live with him. This was my new beginning. Grandpa would have me do odd jobs around his house. I painted the porch, mowed the grass, and cooked him dinner.
My grandfather shared stories with me about World War I and II and how he'd worked in the boiler room on a battleship during World War II. Every morning my grandfather would sit at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, the newspaper, and a cigarette. He drank coffee from an old, stained, lime-green cup. He'd roll his cigarettes with Prince Albert tobacco into a perfect cigarette with one hand. He'd hold cigarettes between his index finger and thumb, burning himself every time one burned down. Black cigarette burns covered the place mat on the kitchen table, and his fingers were tobacco stained. He'd listen to the news religiously on 1070 WIBC. I still have my grandpa's old navy uniforms.
Excerpted from "Why Don't You Like Me Daddy?" by Carl A. Farmer Copyright © 2012 by Carl A. Farmer, MBA. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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