p. 243 (in response to The Women by T.C. Boyle)

Miriam has just told Frank that, "It's either them or me, Frank. Them or me." - She's referring to his mother and Mrs. Breen. Based on what I understand from earlier allusions in the story, Frank is going to care, and remove his mother and Mother Breen from Taliesin. One wonders why he is so entranced with Miriam, who may be beautiful, but is so clearly wacky and, he has just discovered, is also a drug addict. Is sex so important that he needs this drama? Is it adoration he seeks? Why expend all the energy Miriam requires, if he doesn't have to? I assume he feels he has to. It's a tough spot. Been there.

Think back, Molly: what did you do, when you found out that the man whose various behaviors and instabilities had already caused plenty of difficulty for you, was addicted to crack? Did you use that as the way out, the door through which you could justifiably leave your marriage and get on to the business of improving your own life, making it more closely match your childhood imaginings? No. Not right away, at least. You took him by the hands, and looked him in the eye as you knealt on the floor in front of him (is there symbolism in that pose? what is it? what does it indicate about our relationship to each other?), and told him we'd figure it out. Everything would be okay. You were even deluded enough to firmly believe what you were saying, and to see that moment as an opportunity to fix all kinds of things that weren't working in your life together. Nice try. That moment may mark the time at which you finally began to grow a backbone, and laid the foundation for the actions you'd take several weeks later, when you did make an exit from your marriage, and turned a few worlds upside down in the process... but it certainly didn't signal any increased control over Brian or his psychic revolutions. Nope. It certainly didn't.

Why does it always come back to me telling this story? Why is it so important ot me to tell it? Is it my greatest achievement in life, that I left a sick marriage and a sick man in order to save myself and create what I hope and need to believe is a more stable life for Adrian? I feel it happen, every time. There's this moment that comes, in conversation with a new friend, where the context points toward sharing something of myself that relates to divorce, or past romantic pain, or guilt... and it's almost impossible to turn the dial back: I feel the story, the emotions, welling up in me, and the time has come "to tell the story." Will this always happen? Will there not be other - maybe happier - stories that define me and stand out as the most important ones to tell? Am I bragging, to share this nasty labyrinth that I lived through? All of this races through my mind as the tale unfolds for my friend. I wonder, will this be the last time I feel so compelled to tell this story? Will this telling get it out of my system?

Someone I know, a writer, told me I should write about the whole experience - a book, she suggested, because it's such a fascinating story (is it, though?). I have to wonder: would it really help anyone, to read such a book? Would it help me or those close to me, if I did that? Would it then be out of my system, with its telling in such a public way? Why do people write such books - is it therapy, or a contribution to the greater good?

I feel so selfish, thinking my story is so special. I think about all these other women whom I see just once a month, to talk about books. I crave a deeper knowledge of their family lives and inner thoughts. But perhaps my own stories have been too big, and crowded out some of what I might have heard from them, if I slowed down and just listened. We all have rich histories. I'm tired of mine. I want to know others -- and more importantly, I want to know their NOWS. And get on with mine!

How does all this tie in with the book? Does it matter?! Sick people need help, and we can't fix them all by ourselves. We can try... but not if it's going to kill us in the process.

Oh, and by the way? I'm looking forward to meeting Frank's first wife, Kitty. I wonder if she kept him pulled together for their time together, and then finally just ran out of steam for the task. He reminds me an awful lot of a few people I know: artists, ex-husbands, etc. -- charming and captivating on the good days, tyrants when things don't go their way. Creative genius at the cost of stability, compassion, and unselfishness. Bummer, that.

Note: this was written in March 2010, when our group was reading The Women. It's now August 1st, and I'm sharing this because I'm "daring to share" today. I'd love feedback, even if it's to say, "Hey, Molly, that was TMI!" The characters in this piece are all real - and they're not in such bad places as they once were. I'm thankf ul for that!