COUNSELOR REACHES PAST PAIN TO HELP TEENS.

Byline: Donna Huffaker Daily News Staff Writer

Seated among slouched teen-agers in a classroom, drug counselor Cary Quashen never flinched as he listened to their traumatic stories, despite the chilling details.

Athena Huntington told of an addiction to crystal methamphetamine that led her to drop out of school, move to Mexico with her 25-year-old boyfriend and try to live as an exotic dancer. That was three years ago when she was 14.

Now, she has been sober for 108 days.

Fifteen-year-old Greg Perez of Los Angeles was booked into a New Jersey jail recently under a program called Cared Straight. Greg, who arrived thinking he was tough, spent three tearful hours in jail under the false impression that he would have to spend the night with inmates who threatened him.

The troubled Los Angeles teen told his story on ``The Ricki Lake Show.''

Now, he has spent 13 days sober.

Since 1993, Ryan Simmons has lost eight friends to drugs or alcohol. Hooked on both when he was in high school, the 19-year-old said he loaded a 9 mm pistol, sat in his bedroom and pointed the gun at his face.

``Looking down the barrel of a gun changes your whole life,'' Simmons, sober for 120 days, told the group of teen-agers gathered at Crescenta Valley High School.

Some of the teens were there only because a judge had ordered them to be. But all of them have made an effort, reluctantly or not, to kick the habits that have bedeviled their lives.

Quashen, the chief executive officer of Action, is the 43-year-old counselor who has made it his life's mission to help them. He meets regularly with drug- and alcohol-addicted teens. More than 40 attend meetings at Crescenta Valley and Glendale high schools, and the groups continue to grow.

On the philosophy that there are no bad kids, just kids who make bad choices, Quashen founded the support group for troubled teen-agers and their parents after he began his own path to recovery.

At 25, he was sick and tired of his life, he said. Alcohol and drugs no longer diluted the pain of his home life. They no longer soothed him or got him high, but he doubted he could get sober.

Holding a handgun, he balanced himself on the windowsill of a third-story Hollywood apartment. He said he stopped short of pulling the trigger because he couldn't stand the thought of making his mother cry the way she had often cried for his father.

``If you say life sucks, then you better take a look at you. Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem,'' he said, seated among the group at Crescenta Valley High.

On a recent afternoon, Quashen chatted with Athena at Dunsmore Park in La Crescenta. Children were playing. Sunlight warmed the chill left behind by cool May winds. And Quashen was beaming as one of his living success stories swung back and forth, her blond hair dusting the ground. Her shirt drifted up while she was swinging, and the tattooed words ``Devil Girl'' showed on her pale abdomen.

``Got to get rid of that,'' he said, calling the tattoo a link to her past that she doesn't need.

Athena and Quashen have appeared on various talk shows and will be featured in a TBS special called ``It's My Life.'' It is on these shows that Athena bares her soul by letting the public into her past.

``I'm not proud of what I've done, but it would be selfish to keep it inside of me. If I can help one person, then telling my story is worth it,'' she said.

At 17, although she could pass for 30, Athena has returned to school and is living with foster parents. For the first time in her life, she has a bed of her own - not a shelter bed or a motel bed.

On a visit to Greg at juvenile hall last week, Quashen said the way to help these kids is by getting everyone involved: the schools, the courts, the counselors and the parents. Everyone needs to listen and care, he said.

Quashen's pager vibrated about 20 times on the way to Eastlake. His 24-hour teen help line is patched into his pager when no one is available at his Studio City office. Most calls are from parents who are at their wits' end and don't know how to control children in the grip of substance abuse. His cell phone bills have surpassed $700 a month.

Action is funded by donations and state and federal grants, Quashen said. His goal is to open a long-term residential treatment program for troubled teens.

Patrick Larkin, a Juvenile Court commissioner, praised Quashen's work. Larkin released Greg from house arrest to accompany Quashen to New York as guests for a talk show.

``You have to humor them. You have to scare them. You have to do anything you can. I'd rather be effective than elegant,'' said Larkin, who let Greg make the trip before going to juvenile hall in Los Angeles.

Swinging his legs back and forth on a bench, Greg told about being taken to the New Jersey jail. The inmates called him a sissy, stole his food and frightened him.

The 15-year-old stared at his shoes and said he's looking forward to returning to school. He doesn't want to end up shot to death, as his brother was, in a gang fight.

``This time, I'm going to make it,'' he said.

Action's 24-hour help line is [phone].