GROWING UP WITH A P.T.S.D. FATHER

I. Disclaimer

I want to make sure that you understand when I speak about my dad, I am not complaining. I don't blame him for anything he did or did not do to or for me growing up under his authority. My goal is to report, as objectively as I can, what occurred during my first eighteen years as his son. God used my father as it pleased the Lord.

I was still angry with him, even at his funeral. It took incredible divine grace to overcome all the negative feelings I had accumulated. Forgiveness was anything but easy; it was impossible for me. Unfortunately, I managed to mess up my relationship with my son. He still won't talk to me. I wasn't physically violent with C, but I caused him emotional distress. C left home in the late 1980s, over a decade before the V.A. diagnosed me with PTSD. I sought his forgiveness each time I caused him pain, but he apparently harbored and still nurses a grudge to this day. I am responsible for my actions. I would appreciate your prayers for C.

II. Tough Times

The earliest memories of my dad were not all that enjoyable. My family stayed with Dad’s uncle in Miami before his Marine Reserve helicopter squadron received orders to Korea around 1952. Dad’s unit was Marine Aircraft Group (M.A.G.) 33. Once the military officials signed the truce papers in 1953, Dad’s outfit came home. My mom, Gerry, brother Bill, and I moved to Sweetwater, Texas, after dad left for Korea. Sweetwater is where my mom was born and raised. I remember I didn’t like my brother, Bill, who was four years younger than me. I found him sitting at the top of the stairs several times, so I “helped” him down the stairs. He bounced well and cried loudly. And then, one day, a stranger walked in the front door, but I didn’t remember him. He kept hanging around the apartment, and Mom told me he was my dad. He stayed.

He started looking for work, which led him to apply to Bell Helicopter in Ft. Worth, Texas. I remember driving with him to Ft. Worth for his interview. After the Korean War, the civilian sector rushed to promote the value of helicopters, which meant Bell needed test pilots. Bell Helicopter hired Dad in 1954. We moved from Sweetwater, TX, into a North Ft. Worth duplex. Dad found a new subdivision in Arlington, Texas, near Ft. Worth, a year later. Our two-bedroom cost $5,500 house. Suburbia, at last. With the mounting pressures of test flight, Dad’s P.T.S.D. began to manifest itself openly.

I remember waking up at night to Dad yelling at Mom. My brother and I shared the same bedroom, and his angry voice prohibited further sleep. At times, we feared for Mom’s safety. Dad's alcohol-induced nocturnal “conversations” happened many times in those first years in Arlington. My brother and I, once awake, crept cautiously to the closed hall door and listened. Dad was a great pilot but an impatient, angry, alcoholic Father. As soon as he realized my brother and I were outside the hall door listening, he’d open the door angrily and tell us to come in and sit down. Dad had been drinking as usual and took his frustrations out on Mom. He then started taking it out on all of us.

I spent time in tears during my kindergarten year, and my home life was miserable. Dad had no patience with a son who cried, which I did. The school would often call my Mom to come and get me because I wouldn’t stop crying. Dad rarely said anything favorable to me, so Dad’s love was usually conditional: I love you if you do “X” or because you did “Y.” Unfortunately, I did “X” or “Y” wrong, so I had no idea if he loved me at all. At some point, I realized I couldn’t please him, no matter what. That lasted throughout grade school.

My Dad, Second Lt. Jim Carmichael. USMCR, ca. 1948.

In the fifth grade, math made no sense, and it doesn't to this day. I could do history, science, English, etc., but arithmetic and my brain didn't work well together. Several studies have revealed that if abusive parents raise you, arithmetic may become very difficult.

The first stages of abuse in children revealed specific brain changes. For me, the changes affected my logical thinking skills, impacting math. The more my Dad got angry with me over my test scores, the more verbal abuse Dad leveled against me. I failed ten multiplication tables tests. I couldn’t make the numbers work together to get an answer.

During my sixth grade Christmas break, I spent all day in my room doing math. I sat for hours doing problem after problem. But when Dad came home from work, I still couldn’t do any of those problems. That sent him over the moon. No son of Dad's could be that stupid. My Dad didn't realize that his berating me for lack of cognition was central to my inability to think mathematically. He had created the problem. The more he abused me physically and emotionally, the worse I did. And it didn't take much to bring on his rage.

Dad started drinking the moment he pulled into the driveway at home. Far too often, Mom would tell him I'd done something I shouldn't during the day. Too frequently, my disobedience fueled his below-the-surface anger. Four or five beers turned a deserved spanking into verbal abuse and a beating.

Dad administered strict discipline with his belt, foot on your backside, or his fist. Some beatings left me black and blue, leaving me unable to sit for days. When Dad unbuckled his belt and yanked it out of his belt loops as one would a sword, I think I feared for my life. "Bend over! Do you want to act like a two-year-old? I'm gonna treat you like a two-year-old!" Then he commenced to wailing on my backside. He let me cry for a minute, told me to stop bawling, and then he left the room.

One fall evening, I did something I shouldn’t have. I don’t remember what. By age six, Dad liked to get his nose close to my nose and speak softly. He’d clench his teeth, making it harder to hear what he said. Dad brought his fist to my face and made contact with my face just below my nose. That probably prepared me for M.C.R.D. (Boot Camp), but I digress.

I took some pretty good shots in football, but that moment he hit me, my brain rattled. I wasn’t confident Dad would stop pounding me. He never said he loved me after a whipping or worse. He just left the room. Many other kids had it worse in their homes, so I’m not comparing myself to anyone. I probably deserved much of what I received, but I dreaded hearing Dad’s car drive into the driveway after work.

I want to say here that I am not complaining about how my Dad raised me, even though it may seem that way. He was the Father God gave me. I can better understand the terrible effects of flying harrowing medivac missions in horrible weather where lives depended on his ability and piloting skills. I’ve been there. My purpose here is to set forth how my brain had started to change due to abuse and terror early in my life. Ours was not a happy house, and my mom tried to put a “happy” face on it. She failed. I hated my dad and my situation, which led to my teenage rebellion.

I only saw Dad cry once, which involved something with his father. Dad was a warrior in so many ways. Once the war ended, his great purpose ended, so test flight became his outlet and second purpose. But with it came a lot of alcohol, and the pilot’s parties provided even more alcohol abuse. When he got drunk, which was quite often, he became belligerent. I learned to make myself scarce when I saw and heard it coming.

God gave me the ability to throw a baseball. He didn’t give me the size and speed for football, but I forced myself to learn to hit people. I should have turned in my helmet and shoulder pads after 10th-grade J.V. football. Everyone I grew up with became heavier and faster than me. But no matter my efforts, it was never enough, and Dad verbalized his displeasure at home. I learned to expect no sympathy or encouragement from him because there wouldn’t be any. Awards achieved didn’t matter. Dad made honorable mention all-state tackle in high school, and he was a champion boxer in the Navy. By the time I reached high school, Dad had beaten any mental aggression out of me. Perhaps he feared combativeness at home. I don't know.

Dad had studied the Russian scientist Pavlov and his work with dogs. He was also a student of B.F. Skinner's behaviorism. "Skinner defined operant conditioning by the ability of a person to change their behavior based on the use of a reinforcement. If the reinforcement is given after a desired response, then the mind can train itself to repeat a behavior to anticipate a similar result in the future." But when the reinforcement is usually negative, you won't like what you get. Dad reaped from me what he put into me, and these two famous men altered my Dad's ability to raise me any other way. Dad became his own worst enemy in terms of parenting.

Meeting Dad's standards mattered the most to him. And when my play on the field angered him, he didn’t cool down for hours. I rarely wanted to go home after a game and listen to him.

III. Good Times

We had some wonderful times at home growing up. Mom and Dad had developed good relationships with four couples, all of whom had children my age or my brother's. The five families did a lot of things together. One of those good times involved a 4th of July picnic in our backyard. Dad bought a ton of fireworks and let us blow up anything we wanted. Another time, Dad bought five dump truck loads of fill dirt and had them delivered and dumped in the back yard. Each dirt mound stood about six or seven feet high. Those mounds gave me hours of glorious fun--until he spread them over the backyard.

Somehow, we ended up with a baby raccoon. We named him Ringo. We made a big cage to keep him in the backyard, and he loved playing with our dog. I had my picture taken by the local newspaper for entering a pet contest with Ringo. One day, Ringo climbed the chain-link fence behind us and entered the neighbor’s yard. Dad went to get him, and Ringo clawed him and bit him. Dad drove Ringo to a field outside of town. Ringo left a hole in my heart for months.

As a pilot, Dad flew helicopters to different places, often taking me along. My first trip was to Vernon, Texas. In all, Dad flew me there about three times. Flying feet over the ground, we noticed many prairie dogs in their habitats. Dad would hover just above the ground but at the edge of the prairie dog community. Soon, the diminutive creatures would stick their heads above ground and squawk at us for blowing dirt on them. That was great fun. None of my buddies got to do that!

When I was fifteen, Dad had to fly a helicopter to a wealthy man living in El Salvador who had bought it. My brother and I went along. Dad had a second set of controls installed for me, so the trip afforded me three days of flight training. By the trip's conclusion, Dad had me almost ready to solo when we flew back to Texas. In my last year of high school, Dad flew a Bell Jet Ranger (206) to Miami. There, Bell boxed it up and shipped it to South America. He demonstrated its capabilities for purchase by various governments and militaries. Once again, he had a second set of controls put in, and I flew it most of the way to Miami. Mom accompanied us.

The Jet Ranger Dad flew in South America scared him. It had mechanical issues, forcing him to land in a parking lot in Canada, which kept him up at night.

Dad bought a second-hand pool table that wasn’t exactly level, and I made the mistake of being a little belligerent about it to some of my friends. At the same time, Dad watched T.V. When I had belittled his gift sufficiently, and he had enough alcohol in him, he lost it. Dad started yelling at me. He picked up a pool cue and slammed it on the table, breaking the cue stick. He stood on the far end of the table, threatening me with his club. I wasn’t sure if I would have to fight an angry, drunk man to stay alive. He didn’t come around the table, but I thought my life was about to end. The stress from the unknowns and what-ifs of that helicopter had taken hold of him. Intensified pressure on a combat veteran is complicated and almost impossible to redirect toward something positive. My rebellious nature did not help our relationship. For that, I am genuinely sorry. His combat stress and my sinfulness often collided. I got what I deserved.

My dad flew many significant people during his tenure with Bell. He flew L.B.J. twice, Congressman Jim Wright, the actor Hugh O’Brien, and Gerry Cobb, who was training as the first woman astronaut. My dad taught one of Frank Sinatra’s former pilots to fly helicopters. Many people from South America and Africa ate dinner with us at home. My dad even starred in a helicopter promotional movie, Copters and Cows. He even set some “firsts” in choppers, but I can’t remember what they were now.

One last event should do. I spent my Christmas liberty from Camp Pendleton in the winter of 1967 in Arlington, Texas, where I grew up. I occupied a good portion of that time with my future wife, Catherine, to whom I am still married- fifty-five years old. My parents drove me to Amon Carter Field (which no longer exists) to make my flight to San Diego and Staging Battalion before Vietnam. My dad’s parting words were, “Well, you asked for it.” Mom yelled at him, but he had made up his mind. He was still angry I’d joined the Marine Corps and not gone to college so I could become an officer or find an occupation he approved of.

Mom and Dad died three days apart, December 28 and 31, respectively. I didn’t cry. I had nothing emotional to give them. My life continues as if they did not exist. I hated Dad for decades. He did his best to raise me despite his combat tour constantly spilling over into the present. Unfortunately, I did with my son what my dad did to me, minus the physical abuse. It’s easier for me to empathize with my dad now, but I don’t miss him, and my son doesn’t miss me. Unfortunately, our son has nothing to do with his mother or sister. That's my fault, and P.T.S.D. is not an excuse.

A.

B.

A.  Author the night Carter Jr. High won the city             B.  Author in the halls of Sam Houston High, ca.  Championship against Nichols Jr. High. The                  1966. I have no idea why I was carrying those next day, JFK was assassinated in Dallas, TX., books. I didn't spend much time them.

Nov. 22, 1963. I think I look somewhat intelligent. Looks

can be deceiving as in this case.