"Why Don't You Like Me Daddy?": A Memoir

By Carl A. Farmer

Why Dont 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 Authors 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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477254233

Carl A. Farmer

Carl A. Farmer, lives in Indianapolis, Indiana. He is a U.S. Army veteran, former stock broker, and truck driver. He holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Business Administration and Masters degree in Business Administration.

Book preview

"Why Don’t You Like

Me Daddy?"

A memoir

Carl A. Farmer, MBA

ah1.jpg

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012 Carl A. Farmer, MBA. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 8/2/12

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5424-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5425-7 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5423-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913585

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Bipolar disorder or bipolar affective disorder: Historically known as manic-depressive disorder. A psychiatric diagnosis that describes a category of mood.

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD): A type of anxiety disorder that can occur after you have experienced a traumatic event that involved the threat of injury or death.

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My Parents Marjorie and Carl E. Farmer on their wedding day, 1956.

Contents

Chapter 1 Childhood Memories

Chapter 2 An Out-of-Body Experience

Chapter 3 Scarlet Fever

Chapter 4 The U.S. Army

Chapter 5 Falling Deep in Love

Chapter 6 Transitions

Chapter 7 Housing Tobacco

Chapter 8 Moving in with a Korean War Veteran POW

Chapter 9 A Son out of Wedlock

Chapter 10 Getting Married for the Second Time

Chapter 11 Notre Dame and Hepatitis C

Chapter 12 I Can’t Get Treatment for My Cancer

Chapter 13 Denial of Bipolar Disorder

Chapter 14 Reaching Out for Help

Chapter 15 Staying on the Medication

Works Cited

Chapter 1

Childhood 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