Reflection of a Recovering Guest Blogger, #4, Part 6

Posted by Cindy L Riemersma on

Finally, I am going to post part 6. Part 7 will follow immediately after. At this point there is no need for an introduction. If you have been reading this amazing story from the beginning, you are ready to pick up where you left off. If you have not, please find links to the first five parts at the bottom of this post. I have been away for a couple of weeks and have a lot of catching up to do, but the update will be posted, of course, in a Just Me posting.

Ok, now on to Cherie and the next portion of her story:

Perhaps, I became too confident or lax in practicing the teaching of my Programs, but when I was three years sober, I really put all I had worked for in jeopardy. It should come as no surprise a woman was involved, and insult to injury, someone in N.A. and A.A.

The dark-haired, sexy, little Italian woman instantly caught my attention. She was not a familiar face around the tables, but she sure talked the talk and seemed to be pretty centered. I must have reached her also with what I shared because we made a b-line to each other as soon as the meeting ended. Within fifteen minutes we were laughing and talking over coffee and before the waitress came by with a refill we were in bed at her place. And what a place it was-pool, Jacuzzi, tennis court.

Holy Shit, I always attract the wealthy ones and this one was a psychologist. Jackpot! When she informed me she was just three months clean (I later learned she was using the entire time we were together) I faced a terrible dilemma. It wasn’t like I hadn’t 13th-Stepped in the past, but my affairs were always with women with over a year at least. This was a baby not even six months around the rooms. I gave in to my passions and let myself believe I could handle both my and her recovery. It wouldn’t take me long to learn my selfish decision would have dire consequences.

Our honeymoon existence was short-lived. Pointing to her credentials on the wall, gave Bev the authority, in her mind, to criticize my time in the Programs and quality of recovery. She was a Primal Therapist and decided the 12th-Step groups fell by the wayside in truly addressing all the maladies that plagued Cherie. She would sensory deprive me and then proceed with reparenting. As if my first parents from Hell weren’t enough, now I had her and the padded room to contend with where she did her thing.

The E.R. staff and the Police stood by the gurney as I was being worked on. “I count 13 stab wounds so far,” a nurse said, “There could be more, but the two at the bottom are the worst. They are deep and her intestines could be perforated.”

“Tell us who did this to you. Just say her name,” the officer whispered in my ear, “Don’t let her get away with this.”

“I fell. I fell. Please get Bev,” I pleaded. “No, no drugs. I’m in recovery. I refuse any drugs.”

“Yea she fell over 13 times on a butcher knife,” I heard the surgeon sarcastically say, “How can someone so protective of their recovery be so self-destructive?”

I was healing and threw myself into my work at the University. I went to breakfast, lunch and evening meetings outside of the Quarter and began to make new acquaintances.

The voice on the other end of the receiver sounded so weak, so fragile. “I have cancer, Cherie. Come home, please. I promise I’ll never hurt you again. I disregarded my sponsors’ objections. I reassured my concerned friends I’d be fine. I returned to Bev and a fate I could have never imagined.

It was devastating watching her deteriorate physically and mentally. I did everything in my power to make things easier for her, but to no avail. She was terrified and angry and I was the only one there for her to take her frustrations out on. It all culminated one morning when instead of having scheduled surgery she fled the hospital with her ex and mother. Upon my arrival at the house, the three of them, as a group, attacked me. They were in mass denial of the malignancies eating away her body and my concerned presence was the rude awakening they sought by any means to escape. They beat me and kicked me about the head, face, neck, stomach, and back. They went inside to get a gun, Bev telling her cohorts, “I’ll shoot her and say she was one of my crazy patients. It’ll be self-defense.” I crawled away as fast as I could and hid in a neighbor’s yard.

I was rushed to the hospital and was in very bad shape. I had broken ribs, large clumps of my hair were ripped from my scalp, my right eye was dislocated from its socket. I had a hair-line fracture in my cervical spine and another one in my lumbar region. But, I managed to refuse drugs again as the doctors and nurses did their procedures. I might be a total fuck up in every other regard, but I would not let anything or anybody get me to pick up again.

When I left the hospital I needed to be cared for and turned to a woman with whom I had had a brief affair over a year prior. She and her husband were both members of N.A. and were warned by Bev to steer clear of me or they would be sorry. When the cab dropped me off at their doorstep, I was met with a very cool and highly suspicious reception. I didn’t understand what was going on, but found acceptance in a mysterious young woman they had over for backup should trouble ensue with me. I decided it was better for me to be alone with the mess I had let happen and so, despite their transparent objections I prepared to leave. The quiet woman, who I had seen at many meetings but did not know, stepped forward and appeared to want to come to my aid. But, she was stopped in her tracks by a glance from the couple. I left and headed to my apartment with no earthly idea how I would survive the night.

I did everything, save take a drink or drug, to alleviate my physical agony. But, my mental and spiritual pain and anguish, at that moment, were beyond soothing. I had survived far worse atrocities in my 30 years, this I knew. As far back as I could remember fate dealt me cruel and near fatal blows. Perpetrators far more devious and maniacal had done their damnedest to annihilate the child, the teen, the woman I was. Yet, I had risen each time, perhaps not like a phoenix, but I did always manage to struggle to my feet and persevered. This time would be no different.

“That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” I had heard said. I certainly didn’t feel strong, anything but. I was long past tired and totally disgusted, not with what others had done to me, but what I had done to myself.

No, this time would definitely be different. I felt something stirring within my ravaged body and throbbing brain. This time would be totally and unequivocally different. I felt a strange warmth in the pit of my belly and it was getting hotter with each passing second. By the time the fire consumed my being I realized I was angry. I was seething with rage. I was still around for a reason, I had no idea what, but I would damn well fight for my right to be, I would fight for Cherie. If I had to crawl on all fours I would be at Sunday’s N.A. meeting and then, I would join the members of the group and hang at Bob’s for dinner and fellowship. I was going to take a stand and defend my place in this world, my freedom to exist. And I could only do it fortified with my Programs.

To Be Continued…

~by Cherie Leahy Smith

Related articles

One response to “Reflection of a Recovering Guest Blogger, #4, Part 6”

Leave a comment