Dazey’s Diary: The Accidental Rise of an Unhinged Villain
Dazey’s Diary: The Accidental Rise of an Unhinged Villain
PROLOGUE
If You’re Reading This, You’re Already Burnt.
Dear Diary,
If someone is reading you, it’s not because they wandered out of a spa day thinking, “You know what I need? A light little caregiving memoir.”
They’re here because life is already on fire.
I’m writing this from the middle of it: in the Cottage Bubble out back, stale cold coffee on my desk, my phone buzzing with fresh chaos I’m pretending not to see for five more minutes.
Current status:
running on anxiety, I did not order
parenting the parent while everyone else has opinions from a safe distance
holding receipts—texts, voicemails, videos, medical notes—like armor
wondering when exactly I became the Unhinged Villain for following the doctor’s orders and enforcing boundaries
This is the stuff caregivers whisper in hallways, bury their heads into steering wheels about, and type into search bars at 2:13 a.m. when the house is quiet, but their nervous system isn’t.
Today’s reality:
Messy. Loud. Too much..
To them, I’m the unhinged villain with the bent crown.
To us, I’m just the one who stayed.
Nobody finds this book from a place of “everything’s fine.” We are usually hopped up on:
Caffeine and responsibility
Chaos you did not ask for
Parenting the parent
Emotions to manage (hers, yours, theirs)
Paperwork to wrangle (receipts, forms, all the fucking details)
the last 60+ years on tap (oooof)
Plus the texts left on read:
“unhinged”
“controlling”
“difficult”
‘“vicious Bitch”
The daily here is held together by grit. Clinging to hope, a half‑charged phone, and something feral in my veins that refuses to break.
Dazey’s Diary is what happens after the diagnosis, after the pamphlets, after the support group that doesn’t quite touch your reality. It’s the view from inside the Cottage Bubble: one spicy, independent Sassy Ass woman with Alzheimer’s, one foul‑mouthed Italian daughter, and a crowd of spectators mostly watching from the sidelines.
Here, I name the chaos:
The Bubble – her reality, where you either meet her or you lose her.
The Loop – the question, fear, or accusation that plays on endless repeat.
The Reset – the moment I stop trying to win and choose peace instead.
I am not a saint, an angel, or a superhero.
I am a workaholic with a messy bun; I have no time to address it. A nicotine habit I should give up and a nine‑year crash course in memory care I didn’t ask for, outside of popular belief and accusations from the others.
Exhausted, living a double life in memory care, still showing up, and villainized for wanting peace and structure—this Diary is your permission slip, your toolkit, and your “you’re not crazy” note from a stranger who understands.
Pour whatever’s left in the coffee pot, adjust your bent crown, and sit in the Cottage Bubble with me.
Dazey’s Diary went public, and things got batshit‑crazy fast.
I started sharing real stories, and suddenly, caregivers on completely different journeys were sharing theirs. OOOF—the others didn’t like that. Not one bit.
They ratted themselves out in the comments when real screenshot texts showed up, redacted like the CIA in the 1980s: no relationship status, no names—just words they sent to her and her follow‑up replies… words to me and my vapid responses. I had nothing to hide and a peaceful silence to gain. Accuse and create drama?
“Hold my crown. I’ll show you, blunt, unfiltered, vicious bitch.”
That’s when I realized: my story wasn’t the “suck it up, buttercup, you get what you get” variety.
It was the one who refused to stay silent.
My voice sounded like:
Sassy, “oh no, he didn’t,” ‘hold‑my‑vodka‑martini’, stubborn fight‑or‑flight
Spitfire, unfiltered, sometimes vile and mean
The stuff most people only say in text threads they pray never see daylight
“I’ll show you unhinged, vicious bitch vibes.”
Those labels were loud, but the truth was louder. So I stopped arguing in private and started posting.
What they didn’t see were the stereotypes we’d all been shoved into on this journey:
L: the ungrateful caregiver (not confused), the controlling bitch (structure, consistency, and calmer days), the brick‑fucking‑wall (stubborn and won’t bend), the “toxic” one (their expectations on meltdown).
The Others: weaponized misunderstanding, chronic confusion, performative concern, and absolutely no critical thinking.
What came next wasn’t cute.
The posts that built a following weren’t pretty or polite. They said the quiet part out loud—brutally loud. Receipts and reality: screenshots, stories, and the kind of caregiver truth most families bury under gossip about my “awful behavior.” It was always about them being inconvenienced. The fight was never actually about her care.
I do a damn good job at caregiving. I even have texts from them approving how her story goes—just not the way they’d script it for their own comfort.
I was no longer concerned with their comfort, only with hers—and ours—living on the property.
Fine.
Over four years of blog posts, the stories showed the caregiver’s side against the visceral, nasty noise of others who didn’t get what was happening. My blunt truth and the receipts that backed it up never fit their version of the story.
The Bubble, the Loops, and the Resets actually ran our lives. Crown accepted. Fits perfectly.
Dazey’s Diary went live:
Dear Diary,
This is the #asyouwish, #testme, #fuckit reality‑TV / social‑media version of caregiving. They ghost you and hand you the Unhinged Villain crown, as if that solves their absence and absolves them of all responsibility—because I’m “too difficult and mean” to work around. #brickwall
This isn’t a magical guide to cure medical and emotional Alzheimer’s caregiver chaos or trauma.
You do not need to soften the language or remove the rage to make it inspirational. The inspiration is already in the fact that you:
keep showing up,
name the hard things,
still find humor, grace, and meaning in the middle of the mess.
Spicy Alzheimer’s caregiving—“Shake It, Sassy Ass” vibes‑only survival—full of slap‑ya‑sideways moments and kick‑ya‑sorry‑ass‑when‑you’re‑down lessons gathered along the way.
Like a proper Italian woman on the edge, I drink copious amounts of coffee with my cigarettes. I’m no bloody saint.
I might actually be the baddie—an unhinged, villainous caregiver to the best Sassy Ass Alzheimer’s patient ever.
That’s us—the heart of Dazey’s Dairy. The good, the bad, the ugly, and the blame. All of it, not just on me.
The old status quo—where everyone else’s comfort came first—is burnt. #burnbaddieburn
Hers is more important. Always and forever. The fucking end. Dig your stilettos in—stubborn vibes.
My loved one listens to Lizzo’s “Still Bad” on repeat to calm her nerves in the car because big trucks are scary and panic attacks are real.
If any of this sounds familiar, this Diary is for you:
The group chat goes dead (or blocks you, again) the second you share reality without a filter or dare to ask for help.
You’ve been called “unhinged” for having clear communication, routines, schedules, and boundaries—all the things professionals told you to build to soften the blow as dignity, spirit, and quality of life get redefined.
You’ve heard, “You got what you wanted,” on repeat—their excuse for not stepping up and the official story for why you’re “mean” to them. (Never to her, of course. Just to them.)
The entitled “others” show up with big opinions and nothing to contribute to safety, stability, or actual care—just spying, clickbait‑meanness, and gaslight gymnastics to make the one who knows what’s going on look unhinged and controlling.
You’ve sat in the dark listening to your loved one’s tragic stories, the things that won’t change, and the names of the ones who vanished the second the money ran out.
You listen for breath in the night just to make sure they’re still here.
If that’s you?
You are not unhinged or vicious. You are the Caregiver.
The Bubble, the Loop, and the Reset
Nothing about this is sane. So I gave myself language for the chaos:
The Bubble — the small, protected world where your loved one’s reality makes sense to them.
The Loop — the stuck‑on‑repeat question, story, fear, or accusation.
The Reset — the moment you stop trying to drag them back into a reality their brain can’t access, and choose peace over being right.
Through real stories from inside the Bubble of Alzheimer’s and dementia care, I’ll walk you into all three—plus the snake pit of:
family drama
ghost helpers
medical chaos
the boundaries you enforce to keep everyone as safe and sane as possible
Along the way, you’ll get Hot Tips you can actually use on zero sleep:
How to own the throne when no one else shows up
How to stop chasing ghosts who don’t intend to change
How to plan your days by vibes instead of perfection
How to remember that you are part of the care plan, too
It’s about putting on your invisible crown, writing your own rules that fit your journey (which does NOT fit all), and staying human while you care for someone you love through a disease that does not give a single fuck about anyone’s comfort.
If you’ve been villainized for creating quality of life and stability in an unstable environment, Dazey’s Diary is here to say:
You’re not crazy. You’re not selfish. You’re already doing the bravest work there is.
Whatever dragged you here—late‑night Googling, a meltdown in the bathroom, or a diagnosis that sucker‑punched your whole life—know this:
You are not alone.
I see the exhaustion, the worry, the fierce love, the spicy frustration, and the deep‑seated “don’t fuck it up” program running in the background 24/7.
You’re doing something brutally hard. You deserve kindness—especially from yourself.
Welcome to the chaotic, mind‑numbing, occasionally batshit‑crazy reality of caregiving in the 2020s: a spicy, independent, hyper‑aware, absolutely‑not‑vacant loved one with short‑term memory loss from Alzheimer’s and dementia, layered over family dynamics that have been rotting for 60‑plus years.
Generations of dysfunction. A bow. A shrug. And now it’s all in your lap.
You didn’t ask for the crown. You’re wearing it anyway.
CHAPTER ONE
An Unhinged Villain Crowns Herself
Dear Diary,
For 51 loud, messy, beautiful years, I’ve played every role in her life: daughter, friend, business partner.
Now I’m the adult child caring for a brilliant, stubbornly independent Sassy Ass parent with Alzheimer’s.
Caregiver.
They say that term like it’s a bad word, dripping with sarcasm and “vicious bitch” vibes.
“Okay, caregiver.”
In the early days of chaos, that word showed up like a slur in text threads and side comments.
But it isn’t a dirty word—no matter what “the others” say.
From the outside, you see a sweet older woman—spice and sass, happy and calm in her Bubble.
What you don’t see is how hyper‑aware she still is: the grit, the intelligence, the survival mode still humming under everything.
The fight‑or‑flight got so strong that when the confusion and short‑term memory issues became “too hard to watch,” the “others” ghosted her… and then villainized the only one who stayed and made her quality of life and dignity priority ONE.
They did not like losing priority status.
So they got creative.
They called. They texted. They used me as an excuse to stay away.
I had structure. I enforced routines. I followed the doctor’s orders.
HOW DARE I.
The texts and calls dripped with hate:
Long‑ass, screaming paragraphs about how “L is awful—fix it,”
“How dare you change things?”
and “You should be ashamed of herself” for having Alzheimer’s and daring to change what her life looks like for them.
This was not their idea of how this journey would play out.
I was supposed to cave.
Get reined in.
Behave.
“Stop burying your head in the sand and realize who L is. Rein her in.” That went to her, my faithful supporters, and anyone they felt could knock my ass down and make me relent.
“L did too much to us and is too difficult to work with any structure, scheduling, or routine.”
Cool story. I sent detailed texts in a group explaining what Alzheimer’s is, what I’m told she needs, and how this plays out. I wrote a sentence that shapes the hatred. “Schedule through me, take her out, don’t hang out here playin on your phone instead of giving real attention.”
So, I buckled up, adjusted my messy hair, and became the one wearing the crown.
The Unhinged Villain, apparently.
The one who stayed.
Swear words and all, this is my caregiving journey—ever‑evolving, with crisis management permanently on standby. Dazey’s Diary gained traction.
Diary Entry: circa 2021 ish
This Diary is for the person holding a Sassy Ass’s world together with nothing but vibes, caffeine, and a spine of steel.
If You’ve Been Branded “Difficult”
The group chat goes dead (or you get yourself blocked, again) the second you:
explain what’s actually happening
defend a boundary
dare to ask for the one kind of help only they could give
If you’ve been called “unhinged” for having:
clear communication
routines and schedules
non‑negotiable boundaries
…because professionals told you, “Get ahead of what’s coming,” while everyone else heard, “How dare you make me adjust.”
If you’ve heard “You got what you wanted” on repeat—their tagline for not stepping up and their favorite story for why you’re “mean” (to them, never to her)…
If you now listen for breath on a nanny cam in the dark just to make sure they’re still here…
You are not unhinged. You are not vicious. You are the Caregiver.
I’m just the loud one saying what you’re not allowed to say in the group chat.
The “Others” and Their Noise
The entitled “others”—big opinions, zero skin in the game—drift in with:
spying and second‑guessing
clickbait meanness
guilt trips and gaslighting
gossip to anyone who will listen, and then repeat for my long‑distance ears to hear
Their goal? Make the one who actually knows what’s going on look crazy and controlling.
Joke’s on them—Dazey’s Diary wouldn’t exist without their “contributions.”
From the outside, their story is simple: “She’s the toxic, narcissistic, drama‑queen, unhinged villain. She’s the problem.”
From the inside, the truth is this:
Not everything is as it seems in this tiny, fiercely protected Cottage built for one in memory care.
Here, “toxic caregiving” isn’t the caregiver. It’s the noise:
The opinions.
The commentary from people who don’t live this, don’t understand it, and don’t plan to.
This Dairy won’t fix the broken system or magically mature the “others.”
What it might do is:
Sit with you in the chaos
Give you options for boundaries and blowback
Offer small, real‑world ways to make this brutal road less lonely and less confusing
And if it doesn’t do any of that? Maybe it just makes you feel lucky this isn’t your life, helps you feel less crazy if it is, and gives you a little head shake, a low giggle, or a tired smile.
Either way, the purpose is yours.
Diary Entry circa 2018
This Sucks
The diagnosis doesn’t land softly.
It slaps.
Some people are shocked. Some were mildly warned. I had been silently clocking the decline for a couple of years, so when the word finally showed up on paper—Alzheimer’s—it was almost a relief.
Almost. Her secrecy was the new problem.
Within three/four years, I’m the one responsible for:
appointments
medications
moods and meltdowns
all the invisible details that keep her life stitched together
For about five minutes—maybe ten—people show up.
They:
ask surface‑level questions,
decide I’m being dramatic or “making it up.”
reassure themselves that they don’t have to worry, because they don’t see it
They only notice the new rules and limits. They completely miss the landmines I’m dodging for her.
They hear me saying:
“No… the money is being spent too fast and in ways that aren’t sustainable.
Stop the mean texts—she can’t hang.
No, I’m not creating the confusion; I’m managing the layers you don’t see and what she can no longer fully express.
Fucking Stop.
We need structure.
We need planning.
This is not okay.” #asyouwish #fuckit
I say it to her. I say it to them.
The result? Tragic and vile.
She wants peace and to be left out of the 60‑year drama still playing on a loop with no fix in sight. Their texts and calls—full of missing details and emotional landmines—hit her nervous system like shrapnel. She ends up confused, traumatized, physically weak, and unstable.
The Loop—the repeating pattern of confusion, emotional fallout, and physical crash—tightens.
The structure, routines, and boundaries her brain needs land on deaf ears and blind hatred.
Diary Entry circa 2024 ish
The Text That Changed Everything
One day, they received a message from her phone:
“I officially resign as your mother and Nanna until you all can grow the fuck up. I am done with this bullshit.”
She sent it roughly four years ago.
I am at work. She is off‑property at lunch with friends, phone in hand.
Logistically, I could not have sent that text.
Whether it was:
mis‑understood
mis‑read
ripped out of context
or the clearest thing she’d said in years
…they decide on one thing:
It must be my fault.
No way would she feel that. No way would she say that.
Except… she did.
That text changed everything. She didn’t fully grasp the fallout, but I did.
It forced one clear choice:
“Get in her Bubble or get out of my fucking way.”
The Bubble—that tiny, fiercely protected world built around her routines, safety, and peace—was no longer optional. She was done with the duality between her short-term memory loss and what she knows in the cottage versus what they often spew.
It became the only way this was ever going to work.
And underneath it all, we all knew it.
Diary Post: circa 2024 ish
Brick‑Fucking‑Wall Mode
Dear Diary,
Crown on and knee deep in the paperwork: I’m the POA caregiver who lives on the property, main house up front, Cottage in the back.
The group chat goes silent.
The ones who called me “delusional” disappear into their busy lives. I still get the occasional, “Do I have to block you again, until you…?” after I send an update begging for help with the mental‑health fallout of Alzheimer’s—the kind of help only they could have offered. As they helped create this new challenge.
Every day, exactly one person shows up—with a sassy, fun tone and a messy bun.
Spoiler: that’s me.
The realization lands:
This isn’t a phase. This is our life now.
Long‑term. For as long as this road runs.
“Alzheimer’s sucks,” she says, with that 76‑year‑old dry humor that somehow makes the worst days 2% more bearable.
This is Alzheimer’s Bubble life.
It deserves to be lived on terms set for her—and, most importantly, by her.
My job is to enforce what she needs, not to win a popularity contest.
Why It Might Look Easy (Spoiler: It Isn’t)
From the outside, people see:
tidy routines
a calm Cottage
a woman who looks “pretty good, considering”
They say, “You make it look easy.”
What they don’t see is why it looks that way:
schedule, routine, consistency
flexibility when everything falls apart
asking people who know more than I do—learn, absorb, rinse, repeat
patience, kindness, and a feral drive to keep going
Am I controlling?
No.
I’m committed. This is my second full‑time job.
Reality slaps your ass sideways:
Job Description:
To create a healthy, safe, as‑low‑stress‑as‑possible world for a sassy‑ass woman with Alzheimer’s who is determined to stay independent—for as long as she can.
It is not my job to keep the rest of the world comfortable. There are no negotiations left. The early Diary posts show how far past negotiating we are. Full stop.
I’ve been brutal with my honesty—to them, to the ones spying for them, and to anyone who might help smuggle in the vile disasters of past relationships, all gone because I’m in charge now and they hated me for it.
I don’t waste time wondering whether my choices work for anyone outside this tiny caregiving universe built around one exceptional woman.
It is not my responsibility to protect others from feeling inconvenienced.
Been there, done that. And look where it got us.
That’s theirs.
Nine years in, the short version is simple:
Make decisions.
Set boundaries.
Stick to them.
When the outside world clashes with your primary goals—safety and well‑being—be decisive and direct. Be honest and blunt. Find the solutions that actually support your journey.Lock onto one goal:
Peace and kindness. Dignity for the one in need. Not applause from the spectators.This is where Dazey’s Diary truly starts: with an “unhinged villain” holding her whole world together on vibes, caffeine, and a spine of steel—and daring to say, out loud:
This is my life now.
It will be on my terms.
Get my fucking crown.
I had it fitted.
It’s perfect for my new role, our successes, our failures, and my superpowers as a strong, foul‑mouthed Italian living in the discombobulated world of her Bubbles, Resets, and Loops.
I didn’t know it at first, but we were already living inside the Bubble and the Loop—the small, protected world built for her, and the repeating cycles that come with this disease.
You’ll meet both in the next chapter.
And I am not the bad guy for staying.
‘Not everything is as it seems.’ L
The crown is slightly crooked, your eyes are burning from exhaustion, and your phone is lit up with other people’s opinions.
