One phrase that I heard during my brief stint in drug rehabilitation was, "Who's driving your bus?" It was a catchy attempt to shock patients into the realization that, as addicts, we were being led and driven by motives not born of ourselves. In denial, I self-righteously concluded that unlike the unfortunate morons surrounding me, I was at the helm of my own ship, thanks. During the two years hence, I've had the naivet�, (painfully) stripped away by the constant friction with reality.

Of the few facts that dominate my day-to-day consciousness, the realization that I am not the engine that drives my decision making is brutally clear. I feel at once saddened, enraged, trapped, hopeless, and ultimately hopeful. Without the possibility of me once again gaining that freedom of freedoms, self will, life appears useless and empty.

Organizations like Amnesty International exist to help restore freedom to those physically bound by law. Children itch to be freed from the watchful eye and smothering concern of parental tyranny. I can sympathize to an extent with these other examples of people without freedom. But I can think of no loss of freedom less torturous and dreadful than that over the government of one's very own will. The indignities of drug addiction are many, varied. Social stigma, injection-related disease, mistreatment by law enforcement, and the toll taken by the ever strenuous task of fund acquisition are petty annoyances taken with a grain of salt. What makes me feel least human, though, is my inability to say to the drug, "no, me first."

There is a level of self disgust that permeates my decision-making process. I feel as if I must gain permission from my addiction before taking even the most basic action. If eating requires the expenditure of funds or precious time, then I am not free to do so until the supply of dope in my system is at least adequate. If going to work negates the possibility of my scoring that day, then I'm not free to choose responsibility for my livelihood over my loyalty to fix. I'm not free to choose a life free from crime, because a major element that sustains the life I live, (not lead) is illegal. I love my family as much as anyone with my affliction can love anyone, but I'm not free to be as close to them as I like, because calling home is a detour from the perpetual dope chase. I'm not driving this bus.

Mine is as empty and unfulfilling a life as painted in this portrayal; the only hope for a far gone addict like myself of experiencing anything resembling a normal life is to somehow, anyhow, regain possession of one's soul. I discovered some years ago that two characteristics of a rich, rewarding life are passion and interest. It had seemed that my dope habit had all but sapped both completely. My passion at the time had been writing and as my addiction consumed me it also enveloped and distinigrated my interest in writing and anything else. It is a testament to the ne�er-receding lust for stimulus that abounds in us that I was not only able, but thrilled to complete an essay on such a down subject as my personal freedom. It goes quite a way in explaining why I'm able to still catch and grasp at hope in this seemingly hopeless state of advanced ill-will.