Families with dark secrets are rarely pleased when one of their own decides to seek therapy, especially when the couch happens to be on a global stage and the truth-seeker a royal son.
The bonnie Prince Harry – warrior, rebel, errant “heir-spare” and recently an expat in the United States in the manner of his great-grand uncle the Duke of Windsor upon his abdication of the British throne for the love of an American divorcée – has spent the past year stripping away more than his apparel.
To tell his truth, in the modern vernacular of self-sharing, he denuded the monarchy, exposing his torments at the expense of the palace, including his brother, William, Prince of Wales and future king; his father, King Charles III, and his father’s consort-queen, Camilla.
His motive, he has said via several televised interviews, a six-part Netflix docuseries and his book, “Spare,” was to tell his side of the often-tawdry stories persistently leaked to the malicious British press by the above-mentioned family members. Or so he believes. Harry’s efforts might have brought him some relief for now, but ultimately they may prove to be another layer of tragedy in his life.
His revelations, rather than shocking, seem stalled in the mind of a 12-year-old, Harry’s age when his mother died. He worried that Camilla would be like the evil stepmother of fairy tales. Charles and Camilla wed in 2005 when Harry was 20, well past the target age of the Brothers Grimm. He believed until his early 20s that his mother was merely hiding, plotting the day when she’d rescue her sons, like Wendy swooping in to save the lost boys from Captain Hook.
Though Harry is a sympathetic character, his confessions (and betrayals) hardly rival the machinations of most families. His book gives much attention to a shouting match between him and William around the time of Harry’s wedding to Meghan Markle – now the Duchess of Sussex – which escalated when the “frustrated” elder brother knocked him to the floor, landing him atop a dog bowl, which broke and cut into Harry’s back. Was it made of Tiffany crystal?
Harry’s sadness that they were “strangely” competitive growing up, and that his and William’s paths have since diverged, seems merely normal. Siblings typically compete and later go their own ways.
What I found saddest was the lack of affection Harry felt he received from his father, as when Charles came into his bedroom one morning and, placing a hand on the boy’s knee, reported that there had been an accident. His mother was dead. There were no hugs and no tears, not for many years. It was when he finally sought therapy that the carefully arranged furniture of the palace began to splinter.
You know how it goes. You discover insights that you want to share with your family, but they’ve not done the necessary work. You might as well try to explain God to an atheist or love to a misanthrope. Despite his best efforts, Harry couldn’t penetrate his family’s proud armor nor displace the family motto: Never complain, never explain. Ultimately, he ran away and began rewriting the fairy tale of his own life.
Today, living in California, Harry hasn’t spoken to brother or father in “a long while.” He says he loves his relatives deeply, means them no harm, and wants his children to have a relationship with their royal family. For someone seemingly so self-aware, it doesn’t occur to him that his estrangement is attached to the fact that he won’t stop talking.
Most of us don’t have to emigrate to escape our families – or collect $100 million to talk about it. But nearly every writer has considered penning a memoir; many stop short, recognizing the potential harm to loved ones. Those who plow ahead sometimes later regret it. Patti Davis recently wrote of her remorse decades after she wrote a tell-all about her parents, Ronald and Nancy Reagan. Wiser writers such as Christopher Buckley, who wrote “Losing Mum and Pup” after his famous parents had died, accept the counsel of editors and leave out the best (worst) stuff.
I’ve started my own memoir dozens of times, but have always decided to wait. Until? This very question came up many years ago in conversation with author Pat Conroy, who wrote extensively about his own family but through novels – the only way truth can really be told, he said. We were having drinks in a Naples, Fla., hotel where we both happened to be staying. After telling him the story I hoped to write someday about my father, he nearly exploded: “Why haven’t you written this already?”
I said, “I was waiting . . . ,” and he finished my sentence for me, “. . . for your father to die.”
“Yes.”
“I wish I had,” he said.
This was quite an admission from the author of “The Great Santini,” in which the protagonist’s father was prominently featured. Santini was brutally honest about a cruel, overbearing, violent father who bore a stark resemblance to Conroy’s Marine-pilot dad. His father and, perhaps, some of his siblings suffered through the book and movie, as well as “The Prince of Tides.” But Conroy also told me, “Never apologize for a book you’ve written” – an apt addition, perhaps, to the royal family motto.
We can’t know what Harry may someday regret about his serialized submissions to history, but we of more seasoned years do know this much: With time, we change. Memories fade or shift. Empathy grows in the healthy heart as life adds layers of tragedy, loss and perspective. Harry at 38 sees the world and his life a certain way. When he observes them 10, 20 and 30 years from now, he might regret the pain he’s caused. I hope it was worth it.
kathleenparker@washpost.com
