Wife Guilt: Why Some Women Stand By Their Men (And Other Realities)

Eliot Spitzer’s downfall has brought much discussion to the airwaves and blogosphere, with no small part of that discussion comprising speculations as to why his beloved wife, Silda, would stand at his much disgraced side. Very cynical commentators have suggested that her marital posture reveals a dark political strategy, or some nefarious desire to hold on to power. The same commentators liken Mrs. Spitzer’s resolute stance to Hillary Clinton’s allegedly politically calculated commitment to her unfaithful husband. Others see a heroic woman trying to hold her family together, while some see a woman too stupid to see she’s been shamed and abused by an aggressive and arrogant husband. (One conservative female blogger might not see Mrs. Spitzer as stupid, but surely she sees abuse in parading Mrs. Spitzer out onto the stage.)

There is much to say about all these observations, but I am not the person to say it. My default position is to see a woman who is in shock; I see a woman who looks like she has been forced to witness the execution of her children. If you ask me, Mrs. Spitzer looks in dire need of healing.

But I also see in Mrs. Spitzer's actions the possibility of Wife Guilt: The reason she is standing with her husband is because she feels guilty for sexually failing her husband. I can almost hear the tape in her head: It’s my fault, for what sort of wife fails to keep her husband happy? How could a wife of such an important man – a man attractive in so many ways – fail to keep her man satisfied? How could a wife who is clearly attractive, even beautiful, fail to keep that man content? I'm responsible for this: surely there must be something wrong with me!

And that is indeed what no one seems to be exploring: there might be something wrong. All kinds of married couples have ceased sexual relations with each other; we all know that things change in marriages. Many women in this country suffer from depression, and menopause is no small hindrance to sexual excitement, especially when depression or chronic fatigue is part of the equation. Many wives know that their husbands’ sexual urges do not decline with age, at least in the same way as a woman who has stopped ovulating loses her "urges." No doubt this puts such wives in a very precarious place. And so, too, their husbands, who are daily, even hourly, bombarded with sexual images and invitations for "mind-blowing" pleasures.

I have heard of several married couples who have made curious and risky sexual compromises with each other. Some wives give tacit approval to their husbands to solicit extra-marital sex so to keep their men happy, but only as long as such husbands recognize their offshore ventures are to be strictly about sex (no love allowed!). I know one menopausal woman who said recently that she would prefer it if her husband would just go out and find a little satisfaction, for she is too tired and too guilty to help him. I once dined (sort of) with a very progressive bi-sexual Episcopal priest and his wife who had struck an even more curious deal: she could have heterosexual extra-marital affairs, while he enjoyed sexual liaisons with men. The one caveat was that they could not commit “real adultery” by falling in love with their respective lovers. Sadly, couples strike deals, implicit and explicit, all the time.

Perhaps the Spitzers had a similar sort of deal, maybe even one that went unspoken. Maybe Mrs. Spitzer is ill. Or maybe Gov. Spitzer was cavorting with very high price prostitutes because there was some guarantee of anonymity; a "typical" affair would be too messy and too risky, even if his wife approved. Maybe some high-end escort services are set up strictly to serve clientele that cannot do the normal “public affairs” route. Husbands who believe they have the tacit approval for this sort of behavior nonetheless feel they must be discreet, so spending big money is seen as a sort of protection.

I realize, of course, that I am speculating about the unknown realities of the Spitzer marriage bed. But I am not speculating about the realities of many married couples, the impulses of men, and the fact that many wives feel guilty for losing their sexual passions (or for simply getting old). One of my childhood friends lost his wife to cancer in a slow and miserable death; her guilt for not being able to have sex with him as she slowly died was one of the burdens he could not carry for her no matter how hard he tried to reassure her that he was fine (and boy, the guilt he felt for thinking about sex beyond her death, while she was still alive, was nearly enough to kill him).

All this to say that we do not know the reasons Mrs. Spitzer is standing on the dais with her fallen husband. But guilt might be the reason she’s not running toward divorce court. Sadly, much of that guilt is often self-imposed, reinforced by a culture that tells us that we not only CAN have it all – success, luxury, power, money, sexual fulfillment, perpetual health and beauty – but that we MUST have it all.

In short, in all of this, I see nothing but grief and sorrow, and a great deal of ugliness.

But, in the end, even if there is no dysfunction in the Spitzer bedroom, even if Mrs. Spitzer feels no guilt at all, there is the distinct chance she still feels responsible. I, at least, have known more than a few women who have taken responsibility for ALL the problems in their marriages. And that, as we all know, is a terrible weight to carry.

(One note: I had a very cynical college buddy who believed that the best way to keep a woman attached to you was to pull away from her; cheating on her was seen as the best way to keep her close. His theory was based on vanity, that the woman would be drawn closer to her cheating man to find out how she had fallen out of favor. The woman would fret to no end: Have I lost my allure? my beauty? my sex appeal? Did I do something wrong? My friend felt this worked even if the guy was a loser. But it especially worked if he was a great success, at least in the eyes of the world. Surely a successful man who wandered was saying that his wife was not up to par, no? That there was something wrong with her?

Of course, PAYING for sex is not the best evidence that a guy is particularly skilled at romancing the ladies.)

Peace.

BG

©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Blahs, Blues and Barack

Friday. A blogger's nadir, the Death Valley of the week. How is it that folks stop visiting on this day of all days? Is Friday 'dress down day' at the office, when everybody takes off for an early and long lunch? Is Friday 'home office day,' where countless workers huddle around laptops -- coffee, spouse and kids nearby -- with Saturday scratching at the door and blogs tossed into the garbage bin?

THOUGHTS ON THE FLY, SEATED IN A CAFÉ

The group of elderly folks seated at the tables nearby gathers at this little café every morning of the week, except Sundays. Each is a widow or widower; each lives in this tiny New Hampshire town (population 1,200; Nov. 21). And this morning they are quieter than usual. And one fewer (population 1,199).

Pat H., the jolly old ringleader of this coffee klatsch, died on Thanksgiving Day. She just disappeared, though she was seemingly too alive to ever pass away. But she did, and though the conversation next to me is subdued, it has not stopped. Words keep us going.

Yesterday I luncheoned in this same little café with a man wracked with grief in the wake of the death of his 15-year-old daughter 8 weeks ago. She, too, simply disappeared, though her death was expected for far too long: she died of an inoperable tumor that consumed her brain. Several times during our lunch together tears flowed; I was overcome when he told me that his daughter's last breath was used to say these three words: "I love you."

Words keep us going.

SPEAKING OF WORDS

I can't possibly express my surprise at the lengthy discussion that ensued after I posted my essay, "For Fun: The Speed of Light, Existence, Faith and Atheism." I am awed, impressed, overwhelmed. And tired. I pray no readers were alienated or put off by the debate. I found it remarkably good fun.

ON BARACK OBAMA

On Wednesday, I attended a Barack Obama event in my hometown. Michelle Obama spoke; it was a fine and interesting event. I even willingly put an Obama sticker on my sweater. Why not? He and I probably disagree on everything; I've been critical here that he's been presented as a savior. But the fact remains that he is a decent fellow, a child of God, and a fellow sojourner. There is much that commends him. Above all, I love that he aims to take the high road; his hope is to help restore civility and kindness -- not just in Washington -- but in America's streets. He intends not to engage in the crass demonizing typical of politics; he promises not to engage in 'us' versus 'them', you know, the 'We're-good-and-they're-evil' game which is standard fare everywhere in America. That nasty game is America's real national pastime, if you ask me, and it's called America's Plague.

My one fear is that Mr. Obama and his wife are too good for the White House. How can they maintain the high moral ground when Mrs. William Clinton is going to throw mud at them at every turn? Can they really keep their noses clean in the scrum which is presidential campaign politics?

Really, I have no problem supporting a man who wants to be decent. Barack Obama does not hold views I disagree with because he believes those views are evil and that evil is what America needs. He merely hears the same questions I hear, and answers them a different way. He believes his answers are good, morally good. I can't help but love him, really. Besides, he and I are both 46 years old.

You'll love this, though: When I entered the Obama event, you have to understand that I knew many if not most of the people there, and they knew me. The small 'disturbance in the force' I sensed as I walked through the crowd wearing my Obama sticker was palpable. I knew that I might be ruining the self-image of more than a few: If Bill Gnade likes Obama, well, I can't possibly like him, too! All of us have felt this in our own lives. We like the team we're on, or the one we cheer for, in part because it distinguishes us from the people we know but do not like or do not want to BE like. When you and your best buddies like NASCAR's Jeff Gordon, it is easy enough; but when your worst enemy proclaims a new fealty to the same driver, things turn difficult, and you find yourself tempted to start cheering for Tony Stewart. You get the idea, and it is not far-fetched: there is an elusive psychology that frames those things in which we find our identities. Our favorite political candidates are not outside our psychological need to distinguish ourselves from others. (I wonder if this means that Mr. Obama's goals are impossible: humans cannot rally around a candidate who attracts people so very different one to another.)

But when Michelle Obama finished her speech (I applauded, by the way), a wealthy local woman, at least 10 years my senior, immediately approached me. I know her pretty well; I know she sees herself as progressive. She is what I call a Brand Name: everybody knows her as a shaker and a mover. And what were the first words this person said to me?

"Hi, Bill Gnade. What did you think?" Then, looking at my sweater, she asked, "Did you put that sticker on yourself?"

I chuckled lightly. Yes, yes I did, I calmly replied.

The incredulity was obvious. The doubt was evident: It could not be.

So much for building bridges between us and them.

I would be stopped 6 more harmless and delightful times before I got into my car and drove away.

The Obama sticker is now on my driver's side door -- you know, the left side of my car.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Ground Null Set: A Memorial Poem

We know the date well. We know the hour, even if this morning it passed on the very edge of dulled nerves. Anxiety is a phone call, a FoxNews alert, a broadcast interruption, that drags the heart toward the basement, where people and dreams were crushed in the old inertia that shook a runway in Boston, or a turnstile in Maine.

Today is also Tuesday, just like then.

In honor of this day, I post a poem I wrote nearly a year after 9/11. I have many 9/11 poems; this one addresses the pain of being a survivor.

We can't forget those who were left behind. They are many.

new york times in ridgewood, nj

the milk has turned bad in the frigidaire
your start to the day, cold, shaped in glass
the english muffins, green, wet and matted
in the plastic bag clipped tight, moldy mass

dirty socks, draped over the rim of jogging
shoes, stiff, and I’ll be damned if I pick them
up for you, or the ladder on the house, leaning
like a tower, windows dirty from inside fogging

the mailbox overdue, fully gestated, delivery
to be induced, or they will
force a caesarean, though i think miscarriage
or abortion and of the NYTs bundled on the path
you won't carry in your arms, though

the press has pressed itself against the patio
doors and through the phone lines and traipsed
into your favorite part of the yard, at night
talking about all of you - like friends - on the radio

while i sleep vertically, looking over where you slept
(the perfect mattress we jumped on in Mattress World
from the ledge of our dreams where hope was kept
and the weight of your arms around my waist, curled)

my feet anchored against attacks on the upper parts
of my fatiguing structure, swaying breathing
the injury like a spear in the side bleeding glass
and i fight not to collapse in a heap of fallen hearts

lights on in the night, all night, doggy-dog licking
the wounds on the back of the kitchen door
whining search for a walksy through the once present ever
after, the battery dead in the hallway clock unticking

i hung up on what you last spoke, and on the white house
and every other dismembered voice
best wishes still on the answering machine blinking
winking thinking shrinking sinking;
sinking;
sinking

8.07.02
©Bill Gnade/Contratimes 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Better An Honest Grief

It is not writer's block. That sort of thing assumes a writer has something to say, to pass along. The metaphor implies obstruction of an otherwise glorious flow of verbiage; it implies a log jam interrupting the normal flow of a sure and powerful river.

What is it called when the river itself is empty, dried up? Writer's drought? What if there is nothing to block, no flow to impede? Or what if the writer's well is filled with dust? What do we call that?

I have nothing to say. At least, I feel like I have nothing to say. The Virginia Tech shootings were my last real reason to craft anything resembling an essay, a poem, something literary. How sad that I should only find a muse in grief. But is that even true? Did I find inspiration in sorrow and tragedy?

Perhaps. But today I've found something else in my gnawing gut; I've a belly full of disgust. I am sickened by the transitions. We humans, or most of us, seem to move from issue to issue, tragedy to tragedy, searching for smooth segues from bit to bit, from pod to pod (as news/documentary items are called on "Current TV"): We want something. We move from pod to pod like rats from switch to switch; we will electrocute ourselves for a new bit of bitter cheese. And I recoil at the thought that we are DONE with Virginia Tech, or Don Imus, or 9/11. That we have "moved on," emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. That we are hunting for the next big distraction, the next Beltway sniper or car chase or racial slur or outrageous political misstep. We look through blogs and news feeds; we grope about, snickering as we dismiss x and y and z; we take hold of A, and we write or film or opine in harried insistence that we have to say something, we have to move the debate, to push the national conversation. We must have A, we must shape it just so; and we shape it so we can have, as quickly as possible, B.

I walk through bookstores, I scroll through blogs and search engines; I sift through news pages and flip through YouTube clips or newsreels and I see nothing but words: words and words and words. We jam words into every void, every crevice. Windbag thinkers tell us that bad speech is fought with more speech; advertisers jam words into scoreboards and dashboards and every readable surface on the planet. We have so many words offered as answers we cannot see that words serve as cataracts to our eyes: we cannot make out the form of the questions that we ever even asked. There is just a dull, hazy light, double, triple vision: two moons in the night sky in our waning, aging light.

What is the solution to Don Imus' alleged racial slurs? Words. What is the solution to Seung-Hui Cho? More words. What to do with Iraq, Harry Reid, Rosie O'Donnell, Bill O'Reilly, Randi Rhodes, poverty? Words and more words. What is the solution to the estrangement of man's existence from his essence? Words. Declarative statements. No question marks.

My word.

Immediately after 9/11, TV networks went days and days without running any advertisements. Why? What purpose did that serve? Did it suggest that to hawk one's wares in sight of thousands of dead people was too tawdry, too decadent and heartless and rapacious and mercenary? How many dead people DOES it take for the networks to stop advertising, two, three? Why 5,000, 4,000, 3,000? What is the magic number necessary for a nation to stop and grieve properly? Who sets that number? What number tells us we can move on?

And how long must I wait before I can write about anything other than all that has preceded this moment? How long, really, do I have to forget the martyrdom of Peter or the destruction of Jerusalem or the Black Plague or the desolation of the American Indian or the savagery of the fur trade or the decapitation of infidels or the garroting of babies or gunshots in a classroom, before I can call myself au courant?

Yesterday I wept at a funeral for one of my dearest friends. Afterwards, as I approached my friend's now-empty house where a luncheon was to be held in her honor, I stopped to talk to Barbara, another friend who had moments earlier eulogized (so boldly, so elegantly) our dead friend. In the midst of our gentle, teary conversation, I said, "Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy." I shocked myself with the sentence, having no idea where it came from, or why exactly I had said it. But in a moment's pause both Barbara and I knew that it fit the moment perfectly; it was the very summation of her wonderful eulogy and what we were searching for on the shoulder of Lookout Hill Road.

Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy.

It is the sort of sentence one might find in Bartlett's, if only its author were noteworthy. It is also made up of mere words. It is more words, words that blind like tears, the cataracts of grief flowing over cheeks, pouring from the dulled eyes that search for a friend who is now a question mark.

Sometimes the only word we want to hear is not a word at all.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.