Therapy, interlude; and more McGreevey musings

The director of the Wheaton counseling center is looking for a therapist in Maryland (my home state) that I can work with over the summer. With less than three weeks of class (gulp) remaining, this isn’t the greatest time to start digging through repression.

So I’ll let you know how that goes.

In the meantime: I have musings about Dina Matos McGreevey. (She’s the ex-second-wife of gay former NJ governor Jim McGreevey, of whose memoir I am a huge fan.) I mentioned the two of them in this essay on sexuality. A few months ago I got her own memoir, Silent Partner, from the library, and I’ve been meaning to talk about my reaction ever since.

This would have been topical if I’d written it up in the wake of the Eliot Spitzer scandal, when she was in high demand from the media. Instead I’m posting it now, for the much less interesting reason that the book is overdue.

—

A brief backstory, so you have some context for what I’m talking about:

(Since both books are written under the same surname, I’ll be referring to them with their given names.)

Jim McGreevey was born gay, grew up Catholic and closeted, got into politics, married Kari, had a daughter, got divorced, was elected governor of New Jersey, married Dina, had an affair with Golan (one of his male employees), had another daughter, was subject to a blackmail attempt by Golan, came out, resigned, had a nervous breakdown, and as of his writing was in a stable same-sex relationship.

Dina Matos McGreevey was born in Portugal, immigrated with her family at a young age, married Jim, had a daughter, was hit in short succession with the triple bombshells that her husband was unfaithful/gay/resigning, held herself together as best she could, had one panic attack, and as of her writing was stable and single, with primary custody of her daughter.

They’re both dedicated and tenacious workers. They both try to create a stable marriage. They each have the world yanked out from under them. They crash, and they burn, and they fight their way out of the wreckage.

But Dina’s book hurts to read, in a way that Jim’s doesn’t.

It’s not because she was the unsuspecting, betrayed partner. It’s because she has all this unresolved, free-floating anger and bitterness. To read her book is to be battered by it.

—

One of the striking things about The Confession is the sympathy.

There’s not an unkind word written about either of Jim’s two wives. He relates the stories of members of his own staff who got his administration into early scandals, but he doesn’t condemn them; he just admits that he should have given those positions to people who didn’t have debts to repay.

This treatment extends to Golan Cipel, the man with whom he had an affair, and who later tried to blackmail him over it. Although Jim is obviously writing about events that make Golan look bad, he doesn’t paint the man as a monster. Nor does he ever step back from the narrative and add “By the way, this guy was a jerk”; the closest he comes is in reporting someone else’s negative comment (”a gold digger”). And he confesses problems that he himself brought to the relationship, on top of the obvious adultery.

He doesn’t go into an orgy of self-flagellation; that would be boring. He starts at the beginning, moves forward, owns the responsibility when he deserves it, and works his way up to the present. And all without once lashing out at anybody else.

He’s very Zen, is what I’m saying.

In spite of the traumatic content, this makes The Confession a feel-good read. You come away feeling that people are understandable, and that it’s going to be okay.

—

Silent Partner covers many of the same events from Dina’s point of view. It includes less of the governorship and more of the marriage, as well as more direct examples of bad behavior on Jim’s part. No surprise there.

But she’s not at peace, and it shows.

There’s a striking example early on: in describing an encounter with a political mover and shaker who became Jim’s mentor, she writes, “it wasn’t nice to meet him.” She editorializes throughout the book, usually at Jim’s expense; and she’ll come back to the same incident or the same observation again and again. You can see so clearly which things she’s stuck on.

All of which is not to say that she should just smile and forgive him and “get over it.” It’s not that easy. To say “she shouldn’t be angry” misses the point entirely. She deserves to own her anger.

But she’s holding it in. And I get the sense that she’s avoiding fear by transmuting it into anger. And because of that, she’s going in circles.

—

Jim got a theraputic retreat for a few weeks. He was able to have his nervous breakdown in a supportive environment, one that allowed him to focus entirely on “sifting through the wreckage” of his life.

When relating the turmoil of the night when the bombshells were dropped, Dina writes, “Some people deal with devastating pain by sharing it. They try to surmount trauma by telling it over and over until it doesn’t hurt so much. Talking seems to lessen their agony. But that’s just not the way I’m put together. Trauma leaves me speechless.”

But sometimes she actively feels that she can’t talk. The morning after her panic attack, relating a conversation with Jim, she adds, “I was afraid that the conversation would become charged, leading me right back to the scary place I’d been the night before.” Avoidance here is an outright survival strategy.

Towards the end of the book, she muses, “I wish I could have had some more therapy myself. I’d spoken to a therapist a few times, not only on the day of Jim’s resignation but a few times subsequently….When I could barely put one syllable after another, it was such a relief to spill it all out to someone who was willing just to listen. I couldn’t talk this way with my family, because I knew it would upset them too much. Still, for reasons of time and money, I had to stop.”

Human beings need to be able to work through traumas in order to move beyond them. Dina is no exception.

Unfortunately, she didn’t get it. Jim had a loyal cushion of staff, advisors, and friends, who made sure that his needs were met as he went into psychological freefall. Dina had friends and family, but was often unable or unwilling to get the support she needed. Her primary bulwark had been Jim himself, and of course that was gone.

On top of that, she needed to hold everything in because she got custody of their daughter, and the responsibility did not leave her the space to take care of herself.

—

There’s one more distressing thing about reading Silent Partner, and one more reason why I wish Dina had gotten that therapy.

She periodically cuts into the narrative to answer accusations and speculations made in the press at the time. That in itself is jarring, especially for readers like me who had been following her motives as she presented them and are startled to watch her shadowboxing against ideas that don’t even bear repeating. But it’s a specific example of this that stood out.

I almost feel bad repeating this, but it’s in a public book and all over the Internet, so it’s not going to be swept under the rug whether I quote it or not.

The section begins, “Most of all, I would never have had a child with Jim if I’d known he was gay.”

I took one look at it and thought, “Oh, God, I hope her daughter never sees this.”

Because this kid—her name is Jacqueline Matos McGreevey—isn’t just Dina’s daughter. She’s Jim’s as well. So what this line ends up saying to her is, “You are not worth the pain I went through.”

And I’m sure that’s not how Dina meant it. She goes on to say that “marriage between a gay person and a straight person is by definition unstable, and the last thing I wanted was for my daughter to suffer the consequences of a broken home, as in fact she has.” That in itself is an understandable sentiment.

But it only works out if “my daughter” is an abstract concept. Jacqueline is not an abstract concept. She is a concrete, existing, real child whose parents are Jim and Dina.

If the last thing Dina wanted was a child with divorced parents, there are only two ways that could have happened: either Dina married Jim and never got a divorce, or Dina married someone else and never had Jacqueline.

If only, if only, if only she had talked to a therapist and sorted that out and worked through the resentment before putting that statement in print.

—

I think Jim will be okay.

I hope Dina will be.

Ditto for their daughter.

And, while I’m at it, I think more people should get therapy. Just because you’re able to function doesn’t mean it won’t make your life better.