“Too Controlling” and Other Lies People Tell About Boundaries

“Too Controlling” and Other Lies People Tell About Boundaries

Dearest Dazey Diary,

Everyone loves to talk about her nervous system.

The trembling hands. The bad dreams. The Looping.

Almost no one asks what it does to my body to hold the Bubble in place while everyone else hurls rocks at it from the outside.

They see a “strong” caregiver.

I feel like a live wire.

Let’s talk about that.

My Nervous System Didn’t Volunteer For This

I didn’t sign a form that said:

“Yes, please, put my body on permanent red alert so everyone else can pretend this is under control.”

And yet here we are.

Here’s my reality:

I sleep in micro‑shifts, not nights. My ears are trained to wake at every buzz, ding, and half‑choked cry.

My resting heart rate thinks there is always a fire. Because there usually is.

My shoulders live somewhere up around my ears. Relaxing them takes actual effort and feels like a liability. #bursitis

On paper, I’m the calm one.

Inside, my nervous system is pacing the perimeter like a guard dog that never gets to lie down.

Every time I:

• delete a text,

• mute a call,

• say “no, not tonight,”

I’m not just protecting her.

I’m asking my body to take another hit so she doesn’t have to. Sacrifice and service for one.

“You got what you asked for.”

The fuck I did.

What I got was revisiting my past every day, on repeat. Each decade, on repeat. Verbal, physical, and emotional abuse on speed.

What I got was the title of unhinged, villainous, cold‑hearted, childish bitch for boundaries she asked for, and routines the doctors suggested, and structure that everyone except the Others praises—like I’m the fucking loving saint, ride‑or‑die child… who sometimes, maybe, gets an hour free to drive a car to the store to buy something she wants that may or may not be a happy, depending on what happened in the one hour a month I am alone.

No one signs up for the last nine years I got, not to mention all the years of dysfunction and the slow demise of fake relationships and transactional connections before in‑home caregiving.

This is not a sob story or even a complaint.

That’s just a fact.

The Adrenaline Nobody Claps For

You see a composed caregiver in every way… until her world collapses because some asshole calls at 3 a.m. or texts at 6:08 a.m.

Hell, I’m still composed while I’m texting the “group of Others” to shut it down or suffer it with me—right up until they start DM’ing, begging for help, because it left the confines of a few and started to spread.

You don’t see the adrenaline math it took to get there.

When her phone lights up at 3 a.m.:

Her heart races. My heart sprints.

Her brain loops on shame and confusion. My brain loops on logistics and triage.

Strategy and plans. How to avoid. How to adjust. How to live in the Bubble and present day, minimize the Loop, and beg for a Reset.

And if you’re an unlucky Other in the group—or even outside it—I may, verbally or in text, make sure you don’t want to get in contact again.

I go from dead asleep to:

“Where is her phone?” “Why?” “Do I have to step between her and another emotional landmine some drama queen started for shits and giggles?”

…and that’s before her physical needs or challenges.

Adrenaline is great for outrunning a tiger.

It is absolute hell as a lifestyle.

My body is not designed to be the smoke detector, the firefighter, and the architect who has to rebuild the house before breakfast.

But that is what holding the Bubble looks like from here.

Burnout Doesn’t Look How You Think It Does

People think burnout looks like collapse.

Like I can’t get out of bed, or I start sobbing in the grocery store.

Never.

Tense? Sure. But tears? I almost never do tears. And if I am in tears, you can bet your sweet ass it’s full‑blown fear that turns into anger.

More often, burnout in a caregiver’s body looks like:

• Tight smiles at appointments because there is no energy left for real facial expressions.

• Forgetting my own appointments, meds, meals—because my brain is full of hers.

• Numbness where joy used to live. Not depression. Just… nothing. Nothing is enjoyable when your life is a high wire, and you hate heights.

It’s:

• Shoulders so tense they have to get a cortisone shot to unlock muscles that move like cement.

• A jaw that aches from clenching through other people’s tantrums and a steely expression that stays within the scope of the Bubble and the outside world.

• Muscles that feel like they’re made of concrete. Always.

It’s walking around on a nervous system that has been revved to a 9 for so long that “calm” actually feels unsafe.

That’s the part no one sees when they accuse me of being “too strict” or “too controlling.” #unhinged

They want flexibility. They want carte blanche.

She needs a consistent routine, structure, and boundaries.

My body needs calmer days so it doesn’t shatter.

The Cost of Being the Shock Absorber

The Bubble looks peaceful from the outside.

What you don’t see is who is absorbing the impact when someone ignores the rules.

When an ‘Other’ connects with her and:

• sends a rage‑text,

• calls at 3 a.m..

• “drops by” unannounced,

• spews their “truth” as if it’s 2006 and she’s still the one who’s supposed to fix what they broke…

That impact doesn’t just hit her. And yes, it slaps her silly—emotionally and physically.

Here’s the chain:

Her nervous system → my body → the Bubble.

I:

• catch the phone,

• catch the fall,

• catch the blame,

• catch the fallout,

…and my body catches every last shard.

She might forget the details.

I don’t.

My memory is long and ruthless on all of it—for her, for myself, and for them.

Her Loop becomes my muscle memory.

My shoulders remember which names on Caller ID mean, “Don’t sleep tonight.” My gut remembers which tones of voice mean, “You’ll be cleaning this up for days or weeks.”

You call me the controller.

My body is the barrier.

Every boundary is carved somewhere in my spine.

What Stress Actually Does to a Caregiver’s Body

Let’s be practical for a second.

Chronic caregiver stress isn’t just “tired.” It’s:

• Inflammation that never quite calms down.

• Headaches that flirt with migraine every time the group chat lights up.

• Digestive chaos because my body doesn’t believe it’s safe enough to rest and process anything.

• An immune system on low battery—sick more often, staying sick longer.

• Hormones are confused as hell because cortisol has been driving the bus for years.

And if you’re “lucky” and that’s not you yet, the muscle tension breaks down the tissue and tendons and starts its own kind of physical chaos.

Then there’s the emotional hangover:

The crash after every crisis, when my body finally realizes it survived—again—and decides to fall apart for 48 hours.

No energy for the bullshit means you’re getting the unfiltered version in a text, telling you exactly why you’re a coward or an asshat—so she doesn’t have to hear me telling her how everyone sucks and how I can’t understand why she would ever want contact. That’s not the life here, sunshine and roses in the Bubble, babe.

But guess what?

Caregiving doesn’t pause for recovery days.

So I grab another cup of coffee, another deep breath, another “you’re safe” mantra—and my body pays retail while everyone else shops this experience at a discount. #asyouwish

The Guilt Tax on Rest

Here’s a fun twist:

Even if I could rest, my body doesn’t know how.

I sit down and immediately think:

“What if she needs me?” (Here’s the camera.) “What did I forget?” (Nothing yet, but she’ll remind me soon enough in a text.) “What’s going to blow up if I don’t get ahead of it?” (Everything else.)

Rest feels like a trap.

My nervous system has learned that quiet is when the worst texts come in:

“L, this is what he/she/they/them sent,” with screenshots and a desperate, “Make it stop.”

Yep, she can still text, screenshot, block, and sometimes unblock—when she remembers which tab to press on the devices she holds onto like a lifeline. If she remembers she blocked, responded, raged, or even clung to the chaos you created.

And then I go in and clean it:

• I delete your words so she can’t keep re‑reading the poison.

• I pull the screenshots so she can’t keep reminding herself what you said or how long it took her to reset.

  So now you’re the saint, and she’s confused about why she feels a way… because you couldn’t possibly be that cruel to her, or that ungrateful for everything I do.

So when the house is finally still, my body doesn’t relax.

It braces.

That’s the cost of years of being on call—not for a job with a paycheck, but for a life I refuse to let you wreck. #brickfuckingwall

Why the Bubble Has to Be This Tight

When I say:

• “No calls after X time.”

• “No unscheduled visits.”

• “No more guilt novels or rage‑texts.”

…it is not because I like rules.

It’s because:

• Her nervous system cannot handle the chaos.

• My nervous system cannot keep absorbing the chaos and continue to function.

The Bubble only works if everyone inside it—and anywhere near it—respects the structure.

What would any of you do without me???????

You want fewer rules? Follow the simple ones.

You want a free‑for‑all caregiving vibe in the cottage? Take me up on my dare to come do what I do—for a few hours, a few days.

Come on.

I mean, I know the Others won’t, but let’s go.

My body is already maxed out holding the line between her and your storms. That may be fun to witness—relaxing, even—for you.

Soft boundaries sound lovely until you realize soft boundaries mean harder landings—for her, and for me. #provemewrong

What I Need My Body to Hear (And What You Need to Know)

Dear nervous system,

I see you.

You have:

• kept us awake when we needed to be awake,

• stayed alert when no one else was paying attention,

• fought off a thousand tiny fires while everyone else debated whether there was even smoke.

You are not the enemy.

You’re the reason we’re both still standing.

But we can’t keep living like the war is always at the door.

So here’s what I’m allowed to do:

• Say no sooner.

• Block faster.

• Step away before my body collapses.

• Ask for backup without apologizing.

And here’s what the Others need to understand:

Every time you respect the Bubble, my body gets one millimeter of relief.

Every time you ignore it, my body pays. And hers too.

There is no neutral.

You are either helping stabilize the nervous systems in this story—or you are adding weight to a load I already carry everywhere I go.

When everyone calls her “too controlling,” an exhausted Alzheimer’s caregiver finally tells the truth about what boundaries really cost her body—and why the Bubble has to stay this tight.

For the Caregivers Holding Their Own Bubbles

If you’re reading this and your shoulders just crept up because your body recognized itself:

You are not weak for feeling wrecked.

You are not selfish for wanting off‑duty hours.

You are not dramatic for needing your nervous system to matter, too.

You get to:

• Guard your own sleep as fiercely as you guard theirs.

• Say, “I can’t hold this alone anymore,” without shame.

• Decide that your health is not the acceptable casualty of everyone else’s denial.

You are holding the Bubble.

You’re allowed to make it safer—for both of you—or smaller, or stronger, or more expensive to enter.

Loved one first.

But you are not last.

Your body is part of the care plan, whether they acknowledge it or not.

If they want access to the Bubble, they have to stop pretending the wall holding it up isn’t made of bone and blood and one exhausted human being.

~ Dazey