Blocking, Boundaries, and Bullshit: How Alzheimer’s Care Turns You into the Villain
Blocking, Boundaries, and Bullshit: How Alzheimer’s Care Turns You into the Villain
Welcome to the Boundary Bullshit
This post is part of a series for caregivers doing the real work—wrangling meds, moods, memory loss, and family drama—while being quietly (or not so quietly) cast as the “toxic” one.
If you’ve ever been accused of being controlling for protecting a loved one with dementia… if you’ve been called the bitch, the brick fucking wall, the problem, the villain, or the reason “no one can get through”… the reason they “don’t visit anymore, for real, like ever”… and then, when they do show up, they start shit because no matter how many times they are begged, asked, told, and professionally advised, they still break the no‑surprises, stick‑to‑the‑schedule boundaries her care team helped put in place—this is for you.
Those boundaries aren’t about being difficult. They exist so she doesn’t spend the day spinning in anxiety, with pounding tachycardia and deep confusion—the kind of serious memory problems other journeys talk about like a looming storm. While you’re holding the whole situation together with duct tape and three hours of sleep, they’re calling you dramatic.
In this chapter, we’re talking about one of the most misunderstood tools in modern caregiving: blocking and managing contact. Not as punishment. Not as revenge. As survival. As safety. Honoring what your loved one actually chose for themselves—before disease and denial started rewriting the story.
Welcome to the messy, necessary work of boundaries in memory care.
Blocking, Boundaries, and the Myth of the “Toxic” Caregiver
Blocking and unblocking callers is the 2026 version of slamming a rotary phone receiver down in a glorious, full‑body I’m done with you moment. It screams annoyance, frustration, overstimulation, and deep, bone‑level exhaustion.
But in memory care? Controlling who can call isn’t drama. It’s a safety feature.
If someone has short‑term memory loss from Alzheimer’s (or any of its charming cousins), managing their call list is less “toxic control freak” and more “parental controls for a smartphone that happens to belong to a 75‑year‑old.”
We’re talking safety from:
Scammers and frauds
“Miracle” medical honeys that cure Alzheimer’s and cancer
Ransomware clowns who want to lock their devices and drain their bank accounts
People who can’t tell the difference between a legit link and a deepfake hell‑portal
To a clear mind, some of these scams are obviously too good to be true. To a brain under siege? They can look like hope.
So yes, we gatekeep the phone. Proudly.
No, You Weren’t Blocked. The Phone Is in the Freezer.
Calling someone with Alzheimer’s three times in one afternoon and getting no answer does not mean the caregiver blocked you.
Not years ago when this bullshit accusation first started. Not now. Not last Tuesday.
You know where the phone usually is?
Lost in the bedsheets
On the bookcase
On silent
In the freezer
In a random drawer no one remembers opening
Or she’s just… not near it. Not in the room. Not thinking about it. Because, newsflash: the world doesn’t revolve around your missed call.
“You won’t answer my call. L must have blocked me again.”
No. That doesn’t work here anymore.
You’re welcome to test that theory—but understand: there’s no threat, only boundaries. Every time you send a link that leads us down a deepfake rabbit hole (even if you thought it was innocent), it adds risk, confusion, and chaos.
Your “spicy, sassy” little digs about being blocked? They aren’t landing. And they won’t be tolerated.
The Fantasy World of Professionals Who Think Everyone Gets Along
Professionals love to imagine that all families caring for someone with dementia are united in some Hallmark‑movie dynamic:
Everyone cooperates
Everyone communicates
Everyone shows up
Everyone prioritizes the loved one’s well‑being
In that fantasy, there’s a harmonious rhythm where everyone works together like a well‑oiled care team.
Yeah. That’s not this story.
This story is about figuring out how to keep someone safe and emotionally steady amid the chaos created by people who do. not. give. a. shit.
As long as it doesn’t land on their doorstep of responsibility? They’re fine.
So we built BOUNDARIES.
The Boundaries That Keep Her Safe (and You Uncomfortable)
Here’s the unsexy, un‑Instagrammable reality:
Child‑level protections on all devices
Because when certain people added spyware to “keep tabs,” what it actually did was:
Break important accounts beyond recovery
Add surveillance where care was needed
Create tech chaos that we had to clean up
Policies like a nursing home—without the staff
Why? Because some folks are too entitled to care about the emotional cost of refusing to adapt to her changing needs. So we put policies in place as if we’re running a memory unit.
Schedules
We keep a routine as best we can—even with surprise visits from the one person she enjoyed seeing… who occasionally showed up with the dreaded ex.
The ex whose presence made her disappear from her own home, staying off the property until she was convinced they were gone and not planning an ambush. With bronchial pneumonia. Around day five of the nasty meds. One antibiotic, six other pills, all because of the havoc the antibiotics were wreaking on her system.
Routines
Routines that repeat.
Over and over.
Groundhog Day, but with more plot twists and less Bill Murray.
To the Outside World, I Look Like a Psycho Bitch
My texts to the outside world often read like this:
“I do not fucking block. Accuse me again. I dare you.”
It didn’t start like that.
I used to pad everything. I used to care about their feelings. I used to explain. Defend. Explain again. Blow up my own world trying to keep the peace.
Today? I choose peace for the people who actually live on this property.
Everyone else—the “others”—gets whatever version of me their own behavior summons. And I don’t care if I blow up their morning or evening. If mine is crispy bacon, yours is the burnt ashes of the leftover slivers on a grill that’s too hot and overdue for a cleaning. #fuckit #iykyk
You share? I share.
You inform me? I inform you.
You go to her and claim I’m blocking you from her?
Then you meet the blunt, brick‑wall version of me: Don’t test me.
No retribution. No grudge. Resets here are strong.
But I remember everything. And I don’t waver.
We’re successful because we:
Put in the effort
Find workarounds
Adjust and readjust
Ask professionals
Execute the plan
And when the plan fails, we regroup and start again
Assess. Re‑evaluate. Change the plan. Reset. Repeat.
Never forget.
I relive all 51 of my years every single day. Every decade is present through her eyes and perception. All hers. Ask anyone who is here each day to witness the miracle of what we achieve every single day she is here and we are blessed with an N visit…
The problem with the others: their accusations and storytelling don’t hold true. It’s starting to look a bit like fiction these days—mistruths or exaggerations. Maybe, just maybe, y’all miscalculated the one and only thing that matters:
She chose her path. Her journey. Where and how she wanted to be protected from herself and others.
And y’all were told, warned, begged—and then we let go. There isn’t a reconciliation. That died the day we were no longer family or on the same path.
Receipts? I Have Them. All of Them.
Recently, the CPA asked how many miles I put on the car last year for taxes.
“463,” I said.
“No, for the year,” they replied.
“Yes. I know,” I repeated.
My old 3½‑year‑old car? I just traded it in after a third recall—this time for the engine. It had 5,402 miles on it.
No digits missing.
The previous recall from a year ago? The paperwork has the mileage. I keep receipts.
Just like I keep:
Texts
Videos
Emails
All in a folder with her name.
We started recording videos when the accusations—fueled by hate, projection, and misdirection—needed to be balanced with facts and reality.
For her. For me.
She asked to video her own words so future‑her could tell present‑her what actually happened when memory didn’t match the feelings. When the story in her head didn’t line up with the conversations we’d had.
She Chose Her Journey. I’m Just Enforcing It.
She made the major care decisions herself, long before things got this messy:
Retirement: on her terms.
Car keys: handed over on her terms.
Stove unplugged: on her terms.
Contacts blocked on her phone: on her terms, when she needed space.
She used blocking as her own reset button. Her timeout.
She just eventually forgot how to unblock.
Same story then. Same story now.
Today’s version of my “test me” is simple:
I don’t show her how to reconnect.
I don’t remind her she blocked anyone.
I don’t resurrect drama she doesn’t remember.
Why? Because we all know what happens if I do:
She sees unanswered texts. Her confusion spikes. Her frustration explodes. She’s emotionally shredded over conflicts she didn’t need to re‑experience.
I do not have to:
Remind daily
Remind hourly
Remind weekly
Babysit adult egos who won’t do the emotional math
That’s not my job.
“I HAVE THE ORIGINALS.”
And I mean it.
You text me? Email me? Message my devices?
Let me be very clear:
I HAVE THE ORIGINALS OF ALL COMMUNICATION FOR ALL DEVICES I OWN.
Just saying.
Test me on today’s standoff.
When professionals asked about restraining orders, I didn’t file them—for her benefit. Not yours.
But don’t confuse mercy with weakness.
The temperature had better drop. Quickly.
The Judgment Olympics: Featuring People Who Don’t Show Up
How do you lower the temperature on family drama when the loudest voices:
Don’t live with the daily reality
Dip in for a 10‑minute video call
Fire off a text or two
Declare themselves amazing
Then disappear for days
They judge from the sidelines without knowing the rules of the game.
They don’t see:
The caregiver who tracks the last time they called
The prompts: “Hey, it’s been a day or two. Want to call them?”
The fact that she almost never calls them on her own—not because she doesn’t care, but because memory doesn’t always line up with intention.
But sure. Tell me again how I’m the gatekeeper villain.
Loving a Spicy, Fiercely Independent Human… with a Fucked‑Up Fan Base
This is the reality of caregiving for someone who is:
Spicy
Fiercely independent
Clear about what she wants
…and surrounded by a fan base that is, frankly, fucked up.
My job is not to make everyone else comfortable.
My job is:
To keep her safe
To protect her peace
To honor the choices she made when her mind was clearer
If that makes me the psycho bitch in your group chat, so be it.
Block me if you need to.
Just know—I’m still here doing the work while you’re composing your next “concerned” text.
Conclusion: This Isn’t Drama, It’s Strategy
This piece is one part of a bigger conversation about caregiving and boundaries—especially when the people circling the situation are louder than they are helpful.
In this chapter, it’s phone calls, blocking, and digital access. In others, it’s money, visits, medical decisions, driving, or who gets to “speak for” the person who can’t always speak clearly for themselves.
If you see yourself in this, you’re not crazy, cruel, or overreacting—you’re operating in a system that would rather label the active caregiver as difficult than confront the people who refuse to show up.
Call this series what it is: a toolkit for caregivers who are done apologizing for doing what’s necessary.
Why This Story Matters (for the Series)
The creamer post showed how a five‑minute store run can turn into an emotional landmine. This chapter shows what happens behind the scenes: the policies, the tech locks, the accusations, the receipts.
It’s the infrastructure of the “villain era”—the part no one wants to see, but everyone is quick to judge.
Next up, we dig into more ways to set boundaries that:
Keep your loved one safe
Keep you out of jail
Make it crystal clear that caring deeply and saying no absolutely belong in the same sentence.
