Don’t Push My Boundaries: Unfiltered Alzheimer’s Caregiver 101
Don’t Push My Boundaries: An Alzheimer’s Caregiver
Welcome back to Dazey’s Diary, where I tell the truth about at‑home Alzheimer’s care — the messy, unfiltered, sassy, and sacred parts. Today’s entry comes from the edge of burnout and the brick wall of boundaries. If you’ve ever been the 24/7 caregiver while “the others” stir the pot and then disappear, this one’s for you.
Some lines you don’t just draw — you guard them with your whole damn heart. Here’s Dazey’s short list of what never gets a free pass in Alzheimer’s caregiving.
Dear Diary, circa now.
I am pissed. I am raging, and I am done. I have to show up calm and peaceful while I’m secretly plotting how to stop the current stupidity of the others — their disrespect of her, of us — and their cluelessness about the shattered glass house we’re all standing in. They are about to get a text or even the week's coffee bill showing bribes of cinnamun dolce begging for an end to the loop and a reset to come. Memory care sucks when the others are interfering at 3, 5, and 6 am!!!
Welcome to life as an in‑home caregiver. 24/7. No respite care. No help from the others.
If you’re here for a tidy happy‑ending story, this is not that. This is the part where you learn exactly what not to do to a caregiver and the person they love.
The Brick Wall of Boundaries (a.k.a. Don’t fucking Do That)
These boundaries didn’t just show up one day because I woke up “bitchy.” #unhinged unprovoked my ass.
The others did the tasks of pouring concrete, stacking bricks, and locking the gate.
That brick wall is why I’m here, writing. It started as private blog therapy—me, trying not to implode—and turned into public hot tips and hard truths that other angry, spicy, and sassy-as-hell caregivers feel as well.
Don’t mistake my “vagueness” for a lack of receipts in my personal story of avoidable, tragic bullshit if they had given a shit about her. Repeat, her.
I don’t give a rat’s ass how they feel about me. I’m dead to them except for the 24 hours a day I give to her on their behalf, unpaid and without emotional, physical, or financial help. They walk away clean of responsibility if I’m the unhinged villain, and the gatekeeper they’re too weak to go against.
I have them: written, visual, and audio. This nine‑year journey is only that “short” because we count from the day of the official medical diagnosis — not from the first signs of memory loss, not from the quiet boundary violations, and not from the slow burn of entitled assholes who never cared what it costs.
Costs who? Her. Me. Them. Us.
The decline is somewhat manageable with routine and structure: boundaries, time, perceived independence, calendars. A version of “independence” that is really controlled chaos and herding‑cats energy piled on top of 50+ years of “what the actual fuck” stories.
We are trying to find something positive in the middle of a lifetime of hatred, denial, and resistance to change that simply cannot be undone.
If you want a shortcut to losing access to your loved one with dementia, here it is: keep stomping on the boundaries that keep them safe. Don’t do that.
Call the Emotions What They Are
Let’s stop dressing it up and call it straight:
Spoiled indifference
Unbridled entitlement
Cold, icy anger
Unemotional detachment
Ghosted, end‑of‑the‑road silence
You get to decide where all of that fits in your story.
This story? This one is mine.
In my story, I send a plea: Please, stop calling at 3 a.m.
And the 5:30, 6:00, and 6:30 a.m. calls just keep coming.
Tested boundaries, over and over, like a man‑child with nothing better to do than rock a fragile boat until it sinks. Catastrophic consequences, dark thoughts, and a constantly evolving tale of woe.
If you’re wondering, “Is it really that big of a deal?” — yes. Waking a fragile brain over and over is not quirky or cute. It’s damaged. Don’t do that.
I Come From This, Too
Don’t forget who raised me. I am not different from what I scream about. I just chose a different point of view.
I chose to quiet the rage (most days) and soften the blows. I choose to turn my energy toward the quality of her life — creating a version of perceived independence that keeps her safe inside this nine‑year bubble of at‑home Alzheimer’s care.
Inside that bubble, dysfunctional relationships will never be repaired. I ask; you refuse. I beg; you accuse me of being irrational, unhinged, and too controlling.
You want to talk about control? Fine. Let’s.
You call me controlling because I set boundaries that protect her, while you continue to behave as if the rules don’t apply to you. And when I don’t bend, suddenly we’re inviting the rest of the world into our small war.
The days of secrets and silence are long gone.
#iykyk #fuckit
How Dare You Use Her
How dare you use a woman — this woman — to her own disadvantage for sport?
How dare you assume there are no consequences?
Maybe you think it’s funny. Maybe decades ago, she told you, “You can call me day or night,” and you decided that permission was eternal, no matter what changed.
It’s not.
That doesn’t work here. Not in her bubble. Not in our DIY care facility with unpaid workers on 24/7 call, cleaning up the emotional mess you cause.
You keep her in the loop for your benefit, not hers, then disappear when it’s time to deal with the fallout. You disrupt her sleep, her routine, her sense of safety, and then act offended when I say, “Enough.”
Don’t fucking test me on this one.
You forfeited visitation rights — not because I withheld permission, but because you refused to follow any basic structure that would keep her safe.
You didn’t like being asked:
What time would you pick her up
Where were you taking her
When you’d bring her back, roughly
It was “beneath you.” How dare anyone expect you to coordinate or communicate? How dare some “bitchy relative” hold power you would easily squander if given the chance.
Projection is your superpower: accuse me of what you would do, did do.
Meanwhile, I’m the one held to the fire for putting real, legal, unbreakable structure in place for her safety and well‑being — physically and mentally — and staying watchful, vigilant, exhausted.
You, with your polished privilege, call it control. I call it survival.
If you’re looking for the line where my patience ends, you’ve found it. Step over it again and — say it with me — don’t do that.
Five Boundary Truths for Caregivers
Here are the lessons this chapter carved into my bones:
1. Middle‑of‑the‑night contact is not harmless.
Those 3 a.m., 5:30 a.m., 6 a.m. calls? They’re not “cute” or “just checking in.” Sleep is medicine for a damaged brain. Protect it without apologizing.
2. No plan, no visit.
If someone can’t answer basic questions — when, where, how long, and how they’ll keep your person safe — the visit doesn’t happen. Clear plan or no access.
3. Entitlement is not an emergency.
Other people’s hurt feelings about your boundaries are not your problem. Safety, structure, and routine matter more than anyone’s opinion of you.
4. Structure is love in action.
Paperwork, permissions, schedules, and rules aren’t “control issues” — they’re how you keep your person physically and emotionally safe. You are allowed to insist on them.
5. One more violation can be the last straw.
It is okay to say, “You’ve lost communication privileges” when people repeatedly ignore boundaries. A caregiver’s breaking point is real. Protect your peace and your person.
Caregiving is not a group project when the group never shows up. #asyouwish
So if you’re the 24/7 in‑home caregiver with no respite and no help from “the others,” this is your reminder: you are not crazy, you are not overreacting, and you are not alone.
This is what it looks like when we stop shattering quietly just to be seen as “good.” This is the part of the story where we say out loud what everyone else whispers: if you keep pushing a burned‑out caregiver’s boundaries, you will lose access. Don’t do that.
If this cracked something open for you, you’re in the right place. Dazey’s Diary is my way of turning rage, grief, and caregiver chaos into real talk and hard‑earned tips.
If you’re:
setting boundaries that piss people off,
holding the whole care plan together with tape and coffee, or
just tired of being the only grown‑up in the room…
Pull up a chair. You’re not alone in this Bubble.
Some days it’s grace, some days it’s grit, most days it’s both — and every word here is me trying to make sense of loving her through all of it.
Hold my vodka martini while I keep telling the truth, less concerned about who gets outed for their poor behavior.
Love ya, mean it.
— “L”, keeper of Dazey’s Diary
