That difficult morning of December 16th when I told my mother I needed help, I told her also that I had in mind what I would do to overcome my drug addiction. She wondered how she could help. I told her that more than anything I needed time and space to focus on the problem. Beyond that, I told her, I would set a daily schedule for myself that I would stick to, and may want privacy in my room to write or to review or to think or to work on this that or the other and that I would need her to respect that.

It was a grave situation and seemed to call for a strong response without delay. But then it was the week before Christmas, I was barely settling in, I wasn’t healthy, I got a new dog, I had family to see and spend time with. After Christmas I continued to rest and adjust and move in. I looked forward to starting my fresh start on January 1st. Make that traditional clean break.

But New Year’s came and I told my mom, “I think I’ll take another week to get ramped up.”

Then my birthday came and went and I told my mom, “I need another week.” She wasn’t pushing me or even asking, but I wanted to show some accountability and I wanted to reasure her that I still planned to get regimented. But I was tired, and I had bills to sort out.

Soon I was shooting for February. Mind you, all along I was getting things done here and there, doing what I could, signing up at the gym, opening a bank account…

Bit by bit I was getting the regimen in place and it made sense to me that I would work into that way, though I had planned to write out a schedule one day and be on it faithfully the next day. This way was more doable. I was working my way in.

And then I got a cold and then food poisoning. That was a setback.

Finally last night I felt ready to militarize my daily activities. Not only was I ready, I needed it. I’d added enough to my daily expectations for myself that it was stressful making constant judgements on how to prioritize and how best to juggle everything. A tight schedule would automate that process for me and lift that burden from off my shoulders.

I had envisioned an hour-by-hour accounting of my day but when I sat down to do it, it only made sense to make a list of what absolutely had to be attended to everyday, put them in the most synergistic order, and put at the top “minimum 30 minutes each.” For two reasons: I knew I was still going to have to try things out to see how they worked and make adjustments accordingly, and because one of the problems I have with sticking to a schedule is that if you get on a roll with something and want to continue, or run into a problem and need more time, or need less time one day than you do another, you feel like a pinball bouncing off the bumpers of your calendar. I might just keep an ordered list of daily priorities and set a minimum time for each.

Here’s how it looks:

[minimum 30 minutes each in this order]

1. park
2. breakfast
3. blog
4. gym
5. lunch
6. novel
7. bongos
8. notebooks
9. administrivia
10. train
11. dinner
12. Andy Griffith
13. code
14. read

A low minimum has the added psychological benefit of making hard things seem manageable. Sitting down to work on a novel, for example, can be very daunting. This way, there’s no pressure to sit for hours, no pressure to fix a certain problem or add a certain number of pages, just work at it for thirty minutes. Most likely, by the time I hit thirty minutes, I’ll be on a roll, getting ideas, and enjoying the work. Gym is another good example. To get myself there, I tell myself that I just have to go. I can do one thing and come home. But once I’m there I want to stay.

So I finally, finally, finally feel like I’m on track. How long did it take me? Two and a half months! Way longer than I expected. My mom says she’s glad I didn’t push it. I have mixed feelings. I did learn to be realistic about these things and that you can’t just turn from drug addict into Super Uberperson in a week. But I also think I could have pushed myself a little more. Been a little more disciplined.

I’m here now.

But I’m not out of the woods.

Last night I dreamt about being with a Puerto Rican friend. I think it was a version of my boy Hector. I think one of my diving buddies, Dave, was in my posse, too, though a Bud Light is about as far as he’ll go. You know how things get mixed up in dreams, at least in my dreams: I had a baggy of coke, and/or found a baggy of coke and/or crack, and/or went to buy some coke with and around these people. I felt that old I’m-making-a-mistake-but-am-either-unable-or-unwilling-to-do-something-about-it feeling. There was also a little bit of a I’ve-been-good-and-now-I’m-blowing-it feeling. But I did it anyway.

That’s scary.

I also woke up and, in my morning hack-a-thon, coughed up black speckled mucus. It’s day 80 and the blackness is still working its way up and out of my lungs.

I’m not out of the woods yet.