Welcome to Dazey’s Diary
A darkly funny, brutally honest dive into caring for a fierce, stubborn woman with Alzheimer’s in the middle of family chaos, denial, and “are you kidding me” levels of bullshit. Come for the messy truth; stay because it finally sounds like what you’ve been screaming in your head.
Dearest Diary (and anyone still scrolling),
How did a messy bun and another sleepless night in memory care turn into this blog? Better question: how did I even end up with hair long enough for a bun when I can barely keep my sanity tied together?
Here’s the family narrative: I got what I wanted.
Translation: I got the full responsibility, the late‑night calls, the paperwork, the meltdowns, the meds, the bills, the guilt — and they got a clean exit.
My “win” was becoming the built‑in excuse for everyone else to disappear.
This is not the story of the smiling, saintly caregiver who “wouldn’t have it any other way.” This is the story of the person who got handed the whole damn mess and was told to be grateful.
The minute I started telling the truth — offering real info, naming what needed to change, holding people accountable — I got rebranded: unhinged, controlling, attention‑seeking, Munchausen‑level crazy.
I didn’t mistreat her. I challenged them. That was the crime.
Every time I explained, defended, excused, or begged, I was told to “lower the temp,” “give them what they wanted,” and all would be forgiven.
Or I’d get the classic: “Do we have to block you again?”
Block me. I don’t give a rat’s ass.
That’s the headspace this blog was born from.
How Dazey’s Diary Started (Rage‑Typing 101)
It started with rage‑typing from the Bubble.
I’d post something raw and way too honest about care conferences, memory‑care drama, toxic family group texts — and my inbox would light up.
Strangers whispered:
“You too? I have a totally different experience than everyone thinks.”
“I thought I was the only caregiver losing it.”
“I wish someone had warned me it could get this dark and absurd.”
Every DM felt like a dare:
Keep going. Say the thing nobody else will say.
I never set out to be a writer. Most days, I’m just trying to keep the wheels from flying off. Dazey’s Diary is me spilling edited fragments of what happens when you:
set real boundaries and people lose their minds
build routines that look “controlling” but actually keep everyone alive
try to balance the spice of a fierce personality with short‑term memory loss and long‑term denial
live in a constant loop of she said / he did drama… in reverse
This was supposed to be a tiny corner where I parked the truth. It turned into a lifeline.
Our Alzheimer’s Story Did Not Get the Hallmark Ending
People love a caregiving story with soft lighting and a touching fade‑out.
That is not this.
For us, the angry phase showed up early and loud.
The “sassy ass” you supposedly need as a caregiver? It didn’t come from me first — it came from her. The comments. The clapbacks. The one‑liners. And the spectators — the ones who weren’t there at 3 a.m. — ate it up like a personality quiz they suddenly passed:
“You can’t treat us like that…”
“That’s not what she said…”
“You’re overreacting…”
“You should be embarrassed.”
“You are the walking embarrassment.”
Thing is, I’m not embarrassed. I’m committed to doing what was needed — what was best for her — and if that means they’re embarrassed because their actions show up in a blog… well, #asyouwishAF.
They finally felt important — right up until they were asked to do something real:
Stop calling at 3 a.m. and pretending that’s “help.” Stop watching everyone else pile on the madness and verbal abuse while you refuse to lift a finger. Show up. Take a shift. Pay a bill. Sit in the hard. Give her peace.
And stop asking for money that should be her retirement, not your latest toy or vacation. Make a difference, or be held accountable.
That’s when my favorite line kicked in:
“If you won’t help, get out of the fucking way.”
Not because I wanted chaos, but because I wanted peace too.
And because I wanted her — the woman with Alzheimer’s, the one who still loved fiercely in her own sideways way — to stay in the only place she adored:
The Cottage.
From Online Chaos to an Unhinged Little Community
Somewhere between the rants, screenshots, and “can you believe this?” posts, a community started forming:
burned‑out daughters who got voluntold into caregiving
exhausted partners who never get off duty
people who swore they were “fine” until they read a post and realized they were not even close to fine
If you’ve ever:
been the default decision‑maker by “choice” you never actually made
watched everyone have opinions but disappear for the real emergencies
been the “best caregiver ever” and the unhinged villain in the same hour
…then you’re my people.
This blog doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t tidy it up. It blows the lid off, labels the chaos, and makes sure nobody feels as alone — or as silenced — as I did at the start.
Why I Keep Writing (Instead of Just Slithering away in the darkness)
I needed a bigger container for the chaos, the receipts, and the pitch‑black humor. I needed:
a place for the stories that never make it into the glossy brochures
a place to admit the days I’m convinced I’m failing at everything
a place to honor the tiny, almost‑invisible wins: a calm afternoon, a joke she still laughs at, a moment of peace in the middle of a storm
Most weeks, I’m working endless hours, mostly alone, in a house that looks like a white‑picket‑fence postcard but feels like a locked compound.
On paper, it’s charming. In reality, it’s The Bubble — a closed system built from Alzheimer’s, denial, and generations of dysfunction, where everything eventually starts to make a twisted kind of sense.
That’s where this story actually lives:
Inside the Bubble, inside the Cottage, inside the head of a caregiver who refused to shut up about it — and, frankly, because it pisses off the ‘others’ and their friends.
Welcome Inside the Bubble (If You Dare)
Here’s the cast:
generational dysfunction that set the stage long before diagnosis
a decade of batshit decisions, drama, and “who even raised you?” moments
a woman with sassy, short‑term memory loss and a long history of doing it her way
spectators who don’t get it — but definitely have feedback
and me: the reluctant narrator, the one who stayed, the one who writes it all down
Dazey’s Diary is:
a messy, honest, unfiltered record of what it really looks like to love someone through Alzheimer’s
a field guide for caregivers who are tired of being polite about their own burnout
a tiny rebellion against the pressure to be “nice” while everything is on fire
If you’re here, you’re probably tired too. You’re probably done with sugar‑coated posts and “we’re so blessed” captions.
You want the real shit. Not advice, just stories of the unhinged brick wall caregiving learned the hard way…
Welcome in. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Pull up a chair in the Cottage, tap follow, and stay awhile inside the Bubble.
We’re unbothered. We’re “unhinged.” And we’re done pretending this isn’t hard as hell.