Dear ‘Others’: An Unhinged Alzheimer’s Caregiver Explains Her Boundaries

Dearest Dazey diary,

Today is May 5, 2026. We’re returning to the blog’s earlier style—the one that made it irresistible for the OTHERS to read and share. The stream-of-consciousness writing that made the Others and their buddies spit fire at this diary for all the Dazeys of memory care.

Quick note before we go any further: this is not and never will be an advice column on what you should or shouldn’t do. This is my diary—a record of what I’ve done (and still do) to survive this wild, embarrassing crew of “others” while keeping one sassy woman as safe and at peace as humanly possible.

I was accused today, starting with a text at 12:30 a.m. #asyouwish

The sender claims the last several posts were written specifically about them.

I am here to say that is absolute bullshit. #ifthestillettofits

The latest blogs are restructured from posts over the past four years. No telling what you’ll find in one—stories, quotes, and bits and pieces from the early days of this chaos—blended together. Back then, everything was a constant crisis. Now, there’s a short, quiet stretch that’s actually peaceful, if I do say so myself. Time stamps matter to this crew.

The here‑and‑now reality? This shit still happens once or twice a month, on damn near a repeat basis. It just doesn’t stay confined to a select few anymore. Most of the Others get to live their lives knowing she is safe and that nothing would ever intentionally rock the perceived independence of a sassy‑ass matriarch who refuses to give in to short‑term memory loss.

She’s blowing up the world, one unpredictable fact at a time. Fight-or-flight is still strong—but we have been successful in this bougie memory care facility with one spicy‑ass woman whose tragic story involves emotional abuse at her most vulnerable. Her mental health, her past, and her present collide when the Bubble explodes and the world she built crashes into the ocean—one 50‑foot wave at a time, times ten.

You cannot have it both ways.

Either:

You believe she has Alzheimer’s, and you accept the way that works—nine years into the diagnosis, plus two or three years of “quirky” bad decisions before that.

Or:

You claim she’s of sound mind, knows exactly what she’s doing, and somehow I’m aiding and abetting—orchestrating and masterminding this sick, illogical tale of woes.

You don’t get to switch between those stories depending on who you’re bitching to.

You can’t have it both ways while you’re out there spewing, “L is such a childish bitch.”

Maybe. But I’m a childish, vicious bitch who knows how to shut it down and take the small wins—like when she wakes up thinking, “I had a nightmare where so‑and‑so and I were in a horrible fight,” instead of spiraling for days.

She hasn’t heard from you in months because…why? Oh right, I “make it difficult” for all of you with my boundaries, routines, and my insistence on consistency.

Energy for energy.

I have said from the day it became clear how this would play out that I would stand on every fucking word. And I still do. #burnbaddieburn

Not everything is about your entitled asses using me as your excuse to cut and run. Amp it up if you want—we will suffer together.

Don’t text me asking for help, accept my help, and then get all pissy about something I wrote in a blog that follows the story of my life.

I’m supposed to have empathy, but never receive it. #unhinged

I’m supposed to be sympathetic to everyone’s needs—as long as they’re not hers or mine. #asyouwishaf

I’m supposed to “keep the peace” without sending a group text begging someone not to call her at 3 a.m. And yet I’m the “childish vicious bitch” who has to remove one person from the group so another will stop bitching about who’s even in the fucking group text.

GROW THE FUCK UP. She retired from y'all for a reason—that’s on repeat, too. And yes, in a group text. Wonder why that would possibly happen, hmmm?

I’m running memory care for someone who can repeat a story five times in ten minutes. She has the emotional stamina of a young teenager and cannot cope with the bullshit y’all spew:

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“You don’t hear from me because of all the drama y’all start.”

Those messages go to N.—years into memory care.

N. doesn’t know what the fuck she ever did to deserve that level of disrespect from the ones she thinks she loves.

She can’t figure out your rage.

There’s no context, no real details, and her inner feelings are a mess of confusion you keep stirring.

HYPER‑AWARE.

Not stupid.

Not insane.

Not “playing games.”

Don’t send that shit to her and then expect me to do your dirty work—erasing, deleting, and wiping out her only ways to remember what she can’t understand or connect.

Fuck you all.

Come at me. Here’s your space.

Come at N, and I’ll revert to the old days of redacted texts sent to her with your privacy “protected” and your words preserved.

Your words to her.

My words to y’all.

Text only, baby. Y’all taught me well.

Don’t Test Me: Caregiver Do’s & Don’ts

If you love someone in memory care and there’s a Dazey in the mix, here’s your roadmap. Ignore at your own risk.

DO:

1. Do respect the diagnosis.
   You don’t get to call it “Alzheimer’s” when it’s convenient and “she’s fine” when you want someone to blame.

2. Do follow the boundaries.
   Bedtime is not a suggestion. 3 a.m. is not “just when I felt like texting.” Structure is mercy, not control.

3. Do ask, not assume.
   Want to visit? Call? Send something? Ask what works for her reality today—not your fantasy of how it used to be.

4. Do support the caregiver as a human being.

   “Thank you,” “How are YOU holding up?” and “What do you need?” go a hell of a long way.

5. Do keep your real-life feelings off her phone.
   Vent to your group chat, your therapist, your journal—not to the woman in memory care who can’t process your rage.

DON’T:

1. Don’t weaponize your silence.
   Disappearing for months and then popping up to scold the one in care is emotional whiplash, not love.

2. Don’t send guilt texts to someone with cognitive decline.
   “You should be ashamed of yourself” is abuse, not honesty. And yes, I said abuse.

3. Don’t call me controlling because I protect her peace.
   Boundaries, routines, and consistency are the only reasons her life isn’t one long panic attack.

4. Don’t read the blog like it’s about you—unless it is.
   If the shoe, the stiletto, or the size‑13 clown shoe fits? That’s your mirror, not my problem. #ifthestillettofits

5. Don’t ask for my help and then trash me for how I cope.
   You don’t get my crisis management, and you're right to drag my name because you don’t like my storytelling.

6. Don’t come for her.
   Come at me all day long—I’ve got receipts and redaction skills. But if you aim at N., we’re done.

Author’s Note

This isn’t a polished essay; it’s a real‑time boundary rant from a nine‑year Alzheimer’s caregiver who is tired of watching “the others” weaponize their feelings while she absorbs the fallout. This is not, and never will be, an advice column about what you should do. It’s a diary of what I did—and still do—to survive an embarrassing, exhausting group of “others” while protecting one woman’s peace.

If you see yourself in this and feel defensive, that’s your cue—not to argue with me, but to ask whether your words and late‑night impulses are helping her or hurting her.

My loyalty is to the woman in memory care, not to anyone’s comfort with how I tell the truth about it. My tone is my tone, depending on what you contributed to this diary’s posting in real time.

Typos? Okay. Point: blunt, direct, and on-brand. Ya damn straight—hold my martini, time is here, and I’m not playing around with HER mental health or with the people living this life 24/7 right fucking now.

I don’t know your lives; I haven’t seen most of you in years, and once again, I needed to remind you.

I don’t have a role to any of the others beyond her caregiver, unpaid. No relation, no empathy, no thought unless there is a problem they need me to address that they started… just sayin’.

~Dazey