By Carrie A. Moore
Deseret News
FAIRVIEW, Sanpete County — Getting down and dirty with the guys during a second-place finish at her first demolition derby is a fitting metaphor for Lindsay Cheney’s race through early adulthood: a crash-and-smash, stop-and-start trip toward triumph at the finish line.
Her ready smile, clear eyes and cogent conversation belie this 33-year-old single mother’s hardscrabble struggle to beat addiction and finally redeem herself in the eyes of family and townsfolk.
In what many would describe as the ultimate turnaround, Cheney, a former meth addict, plans to graduate in August from the University of Utah with a certificate as a licensed substance-abuse counselor. She commutes nearly 200 miles round-trip each week, promising her 5- and 7-year-old children a trip to Disneyland if they can just hang in with her through graduation.
If that isn’t enough to underscore her determination, she has funded her education with demo derby prize money and by selling scrap metal from beat-up cars and old appliances.
She literally turned trash into tuition, much like she steered the tragedy of what could have been a young life wasted into the destiny that colleagues say will make her a superb role model for people rehabilitating their lives.
As a child sheltered by life in small-town central Utah, “I had no idea where I was going or what I would be doing in the future. When I was little, all I cared about was horses, farming and rodeo.”
The daughter of the town’s police chief and a high school special education teacher, Cheney’s life changed when she dabbled in drugs during junior high school. At 17, she found her “drug of choice,” then married and moved to Cedar City, where she could get stoned regularly without worrying about her family’s reputation.
“I ruined my marriage, and everything just fell apart,” she recalled over a grilled cheese sandwich. Her steady gaze and matter-of-fact demeanor reflect a hard-won self-assurance, fostered by “an amazing support system of family and friends.”
By the time she hit her early 20s, she was serving jail time on theft and drug charges, destined to become another meth statistic. Desperate to salvage any hope for the future and, in spite of the embarrassment she had caused family in a town where people know each other’s business, she turned to her father. “I told him I was in trouble and needed help.”
He came up with some cash and traded some beef with a rehab center in Salt Lake County so Cheney could get sober. The family’s LDS bishop chipped in, and she spent five months re-evaluating her life.
But like many who can’t forget the high even after they’ve sworn an oath they will change, she relapsed and landed in jail again after violating her probation. At that point, she says, she got a “verbal kick in the pants” from a brother-in-law. Combined with a realization that she could spend a lot more time in jail and that others didn’t have the kind of family support she had, “It woke me up. I was a lost soul out there, searching for something that today I realize I’d had the whole time, which was love and support.
“I think every addict struggles because family and friends sometimes don’t understand addiction, and sometimes they don’t want to. When it comes down to it, if you care about someone, you don’t criticize what they are doing. You love and accept them for what they are, and eventually, they’ll find their way.”
Cheney has been clean for more than nine years and is grateful for a lot of things — especially that she didn’t have children until she had achieved long-term sobriety.
And as is often the case for those who’ve hit bottom, she said, she’s now, “grateful for my addiction because without it, I wouldn’t be working with addicts.”
The desire to help people caught in the same trap was fostered by the staff at Summit Lodge, a rehab center in Fairview Canyon where Cheney now works full time. “They gave me a shot at being staff and pushed me to go to school. … A lot of them came together to help me with homework. I found out who I am and what I can be.”
She’s amazed at her family’s continuing support, as well. They’ve pitched in to help pay bills and part of her tuition. “My dad took a lot of flak. I became one of the things he was supposed to protect society from. There are times when I still think I disappointed him or embarrassed him.”
Yet her family remains close, and they’re cheering her toward graduation.
So are her neighbors, friends and townspeople she may not even know. “In small communities, people come together in a crisis. The neighbors still knock on the door with a meal when you need help.
“I owe all of Fairview a big thank you,” she said, knowing the big pile of scrap metal in her driveway wouldn’t be there to help pay for her education without the word-of-mouth support she’s received when people drop off junk appliances, often without saying a word.
When she asked a family friend for a recycling bin to transport the scrap and told him it was for tuition, “he asked when the payment was due so he could get it picked up and delivered,” so she could get the cash by the deadline.
Though she’ll take a breather from school once she graduates, Cheney will continue her work at Summit Lodge, as she works on the 4,000 clinical hours she needs to become officially licensed as a substance-abuse counselor. Within two years, she wants to go back to school and eventually get a master’s degree in social work.
Even so, she doesn’t plan to leave Fairview. “There are a lot of people in small towns who are dying to get out, but when you do, you find sometimes you are dying to come back.”
She’ll keep recycling scrap metal even when school is finished. “It’s good pocket change, and maybe that way, the kids will get their trip to Disneyland. That’s what I’ve promised them when they want me to stay home.”
After all she has accomplished, Cheney knows being a single mom means life won’t be easy, especially in the short term. But she’s grateful to finally “be happy in (her) own skin.
“I tell my clients I’m the poorest person I know, but I’m also the wealthiest person I know. Sometimes, I don’t know whether I can put shoes on my kids’ feet, but at the end of the day, I’m loved, I have support and I have them.
“And it’s funny, I’ve got my kids thinking the same thing.”
e-mail: carrie@desnews.com
