What was the last thing that scared me with Helen? That she would disinherit me. No, really. I can hardly believe that actually bothered me, but of course it did. What the hell is THAT all about, and where did it come from?

It’s a very real possibility, although she’d have to stay sane enough to see her attorney, who would try to talk her out of it. But my automatic reaction, coming at the tail end of this last episode in Tucson, was the catalyst for what could modestly be called a thundering herd-of-elephants epiphany. Much too simply put (considering the ramifications) — and as I’ve mentioned before — if you take away the money, what is there?

[...crickets...]

Without the eventual reward of divvying up a couple hundred grand (the Dow Jones and nursing home accounting offices willing), why would I or any of us have kept calling or visiting over the last 30 years? Heck, the last 40 years.

To get a taste of those great Xmas cookies?
To reminisce about fun family times in days gone by?
To help with chores around the homestead?
To share good news and unload burdens?
To bask in the comfort of home?
To share each other’s love and affection?

Help me out here, I’m trying as hard as I can. But I swear to God, none of those apply. Maybe a little bit, here and there — nothing is ever all bad — but mostly not. She didn’t bake, either. Or even celebrate Christmas, except back in the early years. Or want to go anywhere, or even want to listen.

For as long as I can remember, even going back to puberty, coming face-to-face with Helen was a tense drill of raising inner shields, especially in the last 20 years. Share my innermost thoughts? (NOT ON YOUR LIFE!) Reveal my hopes and dreams? (ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND???) The same thing applied to dealing with the old man, of course, who had his emotional marching orders.

I know I’ve told this before, but the time in ‘76 or ‘77 when my sister T. and I showed up in Tucson was a horrible experience. I had a really nice Martin 12-string guitar with me that I’d bought from a new friend in Maryland and was sitting in the kitchen tuning up when my father ambled in. I’d already played a solo gig back home, singing all my own material, and I proudly piped up and told him that I’d decided to make it as a songwriter. He stopped dead in his tracks, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, and looked at me as if I’d just said I was going to suck dicks in a carnival sideshow. It was that bad, and it hit my 31-year-old heart like a skidding semi. I must have said something appropriate, and he left the room. A few minutes later he came back, his head hung low with guilt, to tell me that “Your mother and I just don’t want you to be disappointed…”

That was over 30 years ago, and I kept coming back. What did I know? I had a mother and a father. That’s what people do, right? That’s how parents talk to their kids, yes?? The terrible thing is that this incident is only one of hundreds. I can’t think of a single instance where I was encouraged to do something I loved. And when I succeeded on my own, regardless, it never did pass muster. They thought I “wasn’t right” because I was good at art and did so well in school but wouldn’t try out for Little League. I remember once in summer camp I made a wallet and produced a couple of not-bad paintings, winning first-place prizes and two engraved silver-plated cups. The upshot of that was that I came away feeling I’d done something unclean. They never knew what to do with me, I guess, and as a boy, I never understood why everyone but my parents thought I was hot shit. I know my siblings had to push against similar headwinds: we’re all alive, and each of us has in our own way accomplished quite a lot, done remarkable things, etc. — in one brother’s case, just surviving rates a ton of kudos — but no one is a CEO or has a PhD, and while nobody’s starving, not one of us is what you’d call well off.

I honestly wonder if I would have come back this last time, with Helen supposedly on her deathbed (again!), if I would have subjected myself to all the anticipatory stress (never mind the actual psycho-drama) without the underlying motive of wanting to keep enough of a lid on things to make sure the eventual transfer of the damn “estate” proceeded smoothly? The goddamn money, the constant reminders about it, the insidious little monologue inside my head that told me how much I needed it because I wasn’t any goddamn good and couldn’t earn it on my own…

Of course I wasn’t any goddamn good. How would I ever have learned otherwise?!?

Ironically, adjusting to the possibility of being disinherited helped tip the boulder over the edge. Now everything is different. I mean utterly different. I can’t emphasize that enough. Here’s just one example: over the last 72 hours, there’s been this strange thing happening inside me. Whenever something happens or I have a thought that makes me feel bad (dirty, uncomfortable, anxious, sad, or wronged), this automatic self-diagnostic program pops up in my head and asks me if the feeling came from Helen! So far, every single instance has, and then I sit back, letting go of the emotion, and the program checks my own resources: is there a reason for this state of mind? And so far, no! NO! No reason at all. And then I keep going, a little disoriented but not half bad at all.

I’m saying this as plainly and ineloquently as I can to make it stick. The guilt is gone. The thing that carved the ruts into my psyche just isn’t present any more. For someone who’s had a lifelong guilty conscience, this is monumental. I have 63 years worth of training to let go of. Everything in my life is directly affected, especially my relationship to my wife (and everyone else).

I stood by the kitchen window yesterday as I was getting ready to cook supper. The wind was blowing through the leaves of the big elm tree, causing thousands of vibrating shadows in the evening light. The air and everything in it shimmered: the outdoors was alive. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with emotion, because I finally knew that I was all right. My God, THERE’S NOTHING “WRONG” WITH ME AT ALL!

(No guilt.)

Who knew?