I used to hate getting up at 5.00am. I only did it well when I was being diagnosed. I would hop out of bed and be ready to go in moments, fully believing, erroneously, that I was doing okay with all that was going on and that I was getting better at waking up early.
I've been dog-sitting my mom's friend...wait, my friend's dogs. One is all of six pounds. She's ridiculously small and is completely learning how to go to the bathroom outside, which is wicked exciting.
So, in order to get my sorry butt into class at 8am (and this morning I stopped for gas and to pick up lunch), I had to get up at 5. I set my phone alarm and put it half away across the room. The poor little dog asleep on my bed must have jumped out of her skin when the darn thing went off.
There's something wonderful about being back in class and doing work. I really struggled with that this summer. I worked on my writing, a ton actually, but I didn't feel right about not having a job. Now that I'm in class for 8 hours and then did the homework for about two hours last night, I feel like I've accomplished something -- that I am again becoming a productive member of society.