Phone talk is far more real than my letters, a one-way deal, and letters also avoid the rest of life for me, for a while. You and I are an odd friendship. I admire your character, and what you might admire in me is not for me to say.
I will try to not bring you down, as you deal with life, and don't want to advise about up and down, dark and light, reality and self-deception, because
you are educated, wise,---all that. And your honesty around the kids about your feelings, which may be worries, has always felt well done to me at my distance. Of course, to be honestly O.K. for them means being O.K. for real. And now your time is your own, but a man wants a job, a train to ride, along with your neighbors. Your feelings may or may not parallel my Pollyanna shit.
You want to keep your guitars, and either would bring only XX maybe, which is spent already. More could be had but both are worth keeping for their special playable design.
But being broke is real hard for some sometimes. I don't even know if you could sing solo in a bar or restaurant, if your worries are heavy.
Still, it's worth a shot, not too late at night. And don't let the other out of workers steal your guitar.
I intentionally put some easy forms on chromatic roots such as that C# because it is so good for hands.
And you must not fail to find a great next chord only because of it's fingering. I know, by the way, that that C# is no longer hard for you.