From EBONY's May 1989 article (and from Smokey's Inside My Life autobiography):
Smokey Robinson reveals: how infidelity and drugs destroyed his marriage
SMOKEY ROBINSON REVEALS: How Infidelity And Drugs Destroyed His Marriage
With the birth of his illegitimate child and his growing cocaine dependency, famed Motown singer's life took a devastating downward spiral
I'M no shrink.
When I've gone through hard times, I've never stopped to analyze why, never seen the need. Afterwards, though, looking back, I can see certain patterns.
I can see, for example, that losing [my father] even though I was in my forties when it happened, affected me more than losing Mama when I was ten. "Five" [my father] had been such a close part of my life for so long--since the day I was born--I never figured on being without him. He was the one constant, the guy I could always count on. Because he'd beaten back sickness so many times, I believed his heart would never stop pumping. It was hard to admit it, but with him gone, I felt frightened. Without Daddy's advice, without his emotional support, I wasn't sure what would happen to me.
Claudette [my wife] helped, but somehow I was feeling estranged from her. Kandi [with whom I'd had a long-time extramarital affair] helped too. She knew and loved Daddy. It was around this same time, though, that she hit me with startling news.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
Though I'd always urged her to date, Kandi had never had any man but me. And though the doctors had always told her she could never conceive, we had obviously proved them wrong.
"If you don't want this baby," she said to me, "I'll go away and have it alone. I mean that."
"I couldn't do that. It's my baby as well as yours. We'll go through this thing together."
And we did.
I can't say I was thrilled about having a child outside of my marriage--I knew what this would do to Claudette--but it was my responsibility, my baby. Besides, like my other two children, Kandi's child would also be a miracle, created against the certainty of medical science which had claimed conception was impossible.
I knew Kandi would never have an abortion.
She said, "I want something that's part of you, angel. I want this baby."
I would never have urged her to do anything but follow her own instincts. I'm a man who believes that, in this delicate matter, it's the woman who must decide; it's her body--not the man's--that's being altered.
"I'm going to spend as much time with you during the pregnancy as I can," I promised.
I kept that promise, and in 1984 my son Trey was born. I praised God for the gift of his life. He was healthy and strong, clear-eyed and handsome. I was proud.
I'd planned to tell Claudette while Kandi was pregnant, but something got in the way--her plans for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
Claudette knew something was wrong. She knew things were coming to a head. She wanted us to remarry for our twenty-fifth anniversary. Friends we knew were celebrating the same anniversary and suggested we have a double wedding.
I thought about it. I tried to get back into my marriage, back into Claudette, but my heart wouldn't budge. My heart was somewhere out there. I'm not sure where my heart was, but I knew it wasn't at home.
"I can't do it, baby, I can't do it just for appearance's sake."
"You're so far away," Claudette said. "You're somewhere off in space."
This was when my drug thing began, when I started smoking rock cocaine cigarettes. I'd sneak [it] around the house; little by little, I'd get higher and higher.
"I want you to reconsider our remarriage," Claudette said. "It really means a lot to me."
I reconsidered. I tried. I just couldn't.
"I've had a baby with Kandi," I finally found the courage to tell her after our anniversary had passed.
Unlike the past, when she'd always weathered the storms I'd rained on her, now Claudette lost control. She cried; she screamed; she shook with anger; she told me that was it; it was all over.
This was the straw that broke the camel's back.
I said I understood. I had no explanations. It happened. I was responsible. The child was mine.
I decided to move out.
I left, found an apartment, got higher and higher, fell lower and lower.
Berry Gordy [founder and chairman of Motown Records] grew alarmed.
"Come up to my place, man, I need to talk to you."
He kept me up at his Bel Air mansion for a week, trying to talk some sense into me.
All the time I was there, I was thinking about getting high, thinking I was fooling Berry, thinking I was fooling everyone. I never had any dope with me, though, out of respect for Berry and his position. What's more, he maintains a strict no-drug policy, which I wasn't about to defy.
We'd walk around his grounds. He had llamas and peacocks and owls. The pool glistened with sunlight. Servants brought me mineral water and herb tea.
"Stay as long as you want, Smoke," he urged. "But just promise me you'll stop."
I promised him; I lied.
In his guesthouse, where I slept, he put magazine articles and brochures outlining the dangers of coke. I didn't care.
Daddy was dead. Trey was alive. Claudette was hurt. Kandi was worried. Kandi begged me to tell her what was happening. She knew something was wrong. But I wouldn't say a word.
After six months I told Claudette to go ahead and divorce me.
"Does that mean it's all over?" she asked.
"I guess so."
"Well, I won't do it, Smokey. I won't divorce you. Despite everything, it's not a divorce I want. You're going to have to initiate the procedure. I won't."
Two days later, in a fatigued, fogged-over state of mind, I went to see a lawyer.
"What are your grounds for divorce?" he asked.
"None," I said. "My wife's a wonderful woman. I love her, I'm just not in love with her anymore."
He said something about irreconcilable differences. I nodded. She got the papers.
She grew angry and bitter.
One day I went to see the kids and bumped into Claudette. When I tried to act civil, she was short and hostile with me.
"Why can't we still be friends?" I asked.
"Friendship and divorce don't coincide," she answered. "Statistics prove that."
"Don't talk to me about statistics," I said. "This is you and me, Boo Boo. We've cared about each other for 30 years. That doesn't have to change. I'll care about you and I hope you'll care about me for the rest of our lives."
I'd reached her. For a moment she grew warmer, came off her attitude, asked after my health. I was defensive, said I was fine, said nothing was wrong. But Claudette knew me; she knew I was lying.
I stayed high.
"People are after me, people are following me," I told my friend Forest Hairston, who'd always been there for me in times of trouble.
"You're sick, baby brother," he said. "You're hallucinating. You need help. Let me help you."
But I wouldn't let Forest, I wouldn't let anyone near me.
Relatives and close friends started weeping for me.
Promoters wondered why I wasn't working.
So I booked a concert date. Even at my lowest ebb, my fans never knew about my condition, never deserted me. I could always draw a crowd.
Before I went on, though, I got extremely high.
Went out and faced the audience. I sang, but with none of the old fire. I saw ghosts--Jackie Wilson collapsing on stage, Sam Cooke being shot through the heart. What if my heart gave out?
"He's dead," I heard imaginary voices say as I walked back to my dressing room. "The guy's good as dead."
...The knock on the door was loud and persistent. At first I thought I was dreaming. Then I got scared. Maybe it was the cops, maybe a killer. Fear was all up in my face.
"Open the door, man! Open it now!"
I knew Leon Kennedy's voice. I let him in.
"Smoke," he said. "What the hell are you doing to yourself, man? Why do you want to die?"
"I ain't dying, just cooling out."
"Coke's got you so disgusted with yourself, you can't stop. Can't you see the vicious cycle?"
"Leon, you don't know what you're talking about," I lied. Dopers always lie to cover up.
I didn't tell him about the stomach pains, the pus passing out of my body, the heart palpitations, the cold sweats.
"You look like a ghost, Smoke. Your skin's turning green, your eyes are all sunken into your head, you're wasting away to nothing."
"I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm doing fine, man, just leave me alone."
"No, I'm not leaving at all. I'm staying here and I'm praying for you. I don't care how long it takes."
Leon stayed and prayed for me all night; he prayed till the sun came up; he wouldn't leave me; he stayed at my house all the next day and that night insisted that we go to a place called Ablaze Ministry.
Ablaze wasn't a church, just a small building in a working-class neighborhood on Florence Avenue [in Los Angeles] where people were up and singing. Everyone looked joyful and glad. It wasn't an all-Black hallelujah holy revival, but rather a room filled with different type people--Orientals, Chicanos, Whites and Blacks. The leader was a heavy-set Black woman.
"That's Jean Perez," Leon whispered in my ear.
I'd never seen a woman preacher before, and she was dynamite. She didn't come at you from the bible; she came from the street, said how she'd done it all herself -- the drugs and drinking--and she'd seen another way. She was real. Her speech was captivating.
"You," she said, pointing to me. "Would you please come up here?"
I looked around, embarrassed, hoping she meant someone else. She didn't.
Tentatively, slowly, I made my way to the podium where she stood. She hugged me, much as a mother might hug a son. I felt the heat of her breath as she whispered into my ear away from the microphone so only I could hear.
"I know who you are," she said. "I didn't call your name because not everyone recognized you. You look so bad. I been praying for you for a year now. The Lord put you on my heart. He really loves you. You're one of His children. And He sent you here tonight so I could heal you in the name of Jesus. I know about your pus, I know about your stomach, I know about your heart palpitations and the way you sweat at night."
I was stunned. I hadn't told anyone about any of those things.
"The drugs," she said, still in a whisper, "have eaten away your stomach lining. If you hadn't come here, you would have died."
Saying that, she started praying over me. Suddenly she passed out, falling back behind the podium. Chills ran through me. I stood there stunned. They tried to revive her, tried to lift her up, but she was a big woman and it wasn't easy. When she came to, she looked at me and said, "I never pass out during prayer, You're a powerful spirit in the Lord. I want you stay after everyone leaves.
After the service, Leon, I followed her into a small room in the back. There she prayed on me again, holding me close to her, her eyes closed tight, her heart beating loud. Then, for the second time, she passed out.
When she came to, the woman said, "Ooo wee, your spirit is strong, Smokey! You're a positive influence on people, and your influence was about to be taken from you. But now you're all right. Now you're cool. The Lord has His arms around you."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"You'll go on with your life and you'll be a stronger person. The Lord doesn't want you to start preaching, doesn't want you to sing only gospel music. If you do, your secular fans will drop you and the gospel fans won't take you seriously. Just be you. Doing what you do, you can get millions to come over to the Lord from all over the world. Don't push your testimony. He will let you know when to give it, and He will tell you how."
I left the Ablaze Ministry that night feeling higher than at any moment of my life, higher than I'd ever been on coke, so good and so high I felt like I was walking on air.
Since that night -- it's been three years -- I haven't touched or wanted any form of any drug. Just like that, the desire left me.
Being in show business, I'm always around the stuff. There have been endless opportunities to get high. Miraculously, I've not even been tempted. Miraculously, I was saved.
The Lord washed me clean.
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