RECOVERING ADDICT TELLS HIS TALE

Randy Miller's hair stood out in wiry spikes. On the filthy sidewalks
of East Vancouver he would sit, shout, writhe in apparent agony.

He spent more than a decade on those streets, living for his next
high. Sometimes that high came in the form of cocaine, sometimes heroin.

That was seven years ago when he gained notoriety as one of the
subjects of the documentary Through a Blue Lens - a film shot by a
group of Downtown Eastside cops.

Today, Miller barely resembles the man that he was.

His hair is neatly cropped, his mustache trimmed. The gaping whole
where his front teeth used to be has been filled.

And where he couldn't string a sentence together a decade ago, today
he spends his time talking to kids, warning them not to tread the
dangerous path that he hiked along for years.

Spending 13 years on skid row and living to tell about it, he said,
isn't the norm. Many of his compatriots died - some overdosed, some
were murdered.

But he is a survivor.

On Wednesday Miller arrived in Maple Ridge, stopping in at Hammond
Elementary to speak to those who had gathered for Alouette Addictions'
community awareness night.

Through a Blue Lens was screened, and then Miller was
introduced.

It took him two years, he said, before he was able to sit through the
film, watching the footage of himself.

"I didn't know I did that," he said of his reaction to cocaine that
had him squirming across the sidewalk, fists clenched, shouting.

"I didn't know I did that until I saw the film."

While Miller's tale of addiction is sadly ordinary, his life before
drugs was anything but.

He grew up in New Westminster and was an accomplished athlete,
excelling in baseball and hockey.

By the time he was 15 he was playing Junior A. Two years later the
Minnesota North Stars came calling. The NHL was within his reach.

But earlier on in his life he had begun experimenting with drugs. He
started off with pot and booze, and later a girlfriend would introduce
him to heroin.

And that was it - that was the end of his athletic career, the end of
his childhood.

"I didn't know I had an addictive personality," he
said.

"It's about making the right choices," and he admits he failed in that
regard.

But it wasn't just the pressure of being an athlete that led him
astray. Miller said he began experimenting with drugs to escape an
abusive father.

Regardless of his success on the ice, in the ball diamond, he was
never good enough.

"No matter what I did, he still punched me out."

The journey to skid row wasn't that far of a leap.

"When you get down there you can't trust a soul. You've got no friends
- - it's lonely."

Eventually, he said, he wanted to die.

"I didn't care if I did die. I was hoping sooner or later I'd OD and I
wouldn't have to deal with this crap anymore."

And he would OD, he said, usually about once a month. But after a
brief hospital stay, he'd be right back on the street.

One day, the film crew brought his brother along, whom Miller hadn't
seen in more than a decade.

His brother showed him photos of his three kids. Miller was an uncle
and had no idea.

But even that, he said, wasn't tempting enough to lure him off the
street, out of addiction.

It wasn't until he overdosed a final time, ended up in hospital and
the nurse informed him he was not HIV positive that Miller finally
decided to give it all up.

"I didn't want to live, but I didn't have the balls to kill myself...I
was just hoping it would be over soon."

Once he realized he wasn't dying of AIDS, coupled with the fact he had
a family who wanted to help him, Miller opted to live.

Last summer, Miller bought a brand new Mustang. When he drove it off
the lot, there were 11 kilometres on the odometre.

Today, he is clean. When not speaking to youths about the dangers of
drug addiction, he works as a longshoreman.

"I think the big guy up there really had a different plan for me."