This Shit Is Bananas, Part Three: Boundaries, Blowback, and Burnout
This Shit Is Bananas, Part Three: Boundaries, Blowback, and Burnout
At some point in Alzheimer’s care, you realize you’ve been quietly recast.
You started as the loving, devoted caregiver.
Now, apparently, you’re:
The gatekeeper.
The fun police.
The one “keeping everyone away.”
All because you did the unforgivable: you set boundaries.
If Part One of “This Shit Is Bananas” was life inside the Alzheimer’s Bubble, and Part Two was what happens when that Bubble slams into other people’s comfort and highlight‑reel perceptions, Part Three is the next phase:
What it actually costs to hold the line.
This is about blocking, boundaries, ghosting, and the quiet (or not‑so‑quiet) bullshit that shows up when you prioritize safety over other people’s feelings.
Congratulations, You’re the Villain Now
It doesn’t happen all at once.
First, you do normal, boring, adult things like:
Take the car keys because she is not safe to drive. Or she just hands them over freely and you’re standing there thinking, well, that was some shit.
Ask people to stop calling her at 3:30 a.m. to “talk about everything that’s going on.”
Say no to big family gatherings she absolutely cannot handle—because she asked not to be the one enforcing that, and that shit is exhausting.
Ask that major health updates go through you so she isn’t fielding ten or more questions that get more confusing with each answer she tries to give.
Insist that scheduling goes through you, and everyone gets butt‑hurt because it’s seen as restrictive, not protective.
From your side, this is called: basic risk management.
From certain seats in the bleachers, this is called:
“You’re being controlling.”
“You’re keeping us from her.”
“You’re making it all about you.” (It’s not about you. Or me. Just sayin’.)
Somewhere in the middle of trying to prevent falls, scams, and 1 a.m. meltdowns, you apparently auditioned for Family Villain #1.
Spoiler: you got the part.
The Boundary Crime Scene: What You Actually Did
Let’s be very clear about the “crimes” here.
You:
Took over the checkbook because bills were being missed and money was going missing. Money was being handed out, debt was climbing, there was no retirement left, and there are still years of life to consider.
Took the keys because her reaction time and orientation are not what they were, and you like other drivers staying alive.
Asked visitors to come at certain times because mornings are better than evenings, or vice versa. (#sundownersisreal)
Said, “Please don’t text the upsetting things she can’t process,” after the third late‑night spiral over a message she didn’t fully understand.
This is not a power trip.
This is:
Protecting her from unsafe situations.
Protecting her from unnecessary emotional chaos.
Protecting you from total collapse so someone is still standing when the next crisis hits.
If my worst “crime” is making sure she doesn’t drive into oncoming traffic or Venmo her life savings to a stranger—or a familiar person—I’m okay doing time for that.
The Reactions: Ghosting, Gossip, and Performative Concern
The moment boundaries arrive, everyone shows you who they are.
1. The Ghosters
They swore up and down:
“Anything you need, I’m here.”
Then “anything” turned into:
Sitting with her for two hours so you can go to a doctor’s appointment.
Taking a shift at the hospital.
Respecting the boundaries that keep her stable.
Suddenly:
They’re “so busy.”
They “meant emotionally.”
They vanish from the group text like it’s a magic trick.
Apparently, “anything” does not include staying in the house long enough for you to buy deodorant.
And then there’s the escalation:
“You are mean to us. Until you learn to treat us better, you are dead to us. Until you stop, we will make life unbearable for her and you.”
Cool. Nothing says loving family support like emotional blackmail.
2. The Performers
Public grief, private distance.
They:
Post long, heartfelt tributes about how much she means to them.
Comment “sending love” on anything you write.
Maybe stop by once for a short, photogenic visit.
Actual help? Crickets. Excuses. “Life is just so crazy right now.”
They love the idea of loving her. The logistics? Not so much.
3. The Critics
They always know exactly what you should do—while doing exactly nothing themselves.
“If it were me, I’d never put my mom through that.”
“I just think you’re taking too much on. Maybe you’re making it harder than it needs to be.”
“I’d handle it differently.”
“Are you done yet? Ready to put her in a home so we don’t feel bad for not being around?”
Cool.
It’s not you. And yet, here we are. What exactly would you do without me? And if I, the caregiver, were not around, would you actually step up?
4. The Underminers
These are the ones who think they’re being loyal to her by ignoring every medical reality and every boundary you set.
“She told me she can still drive, so I don’t know why you took her keys.”
“She said she used to pay all her bills herself; why are you doing it now?”
“She told me you’re overreacting. She seemed totally fine when I was there.”
They confuse dementia‑soaked statements with courtroom testimony.
They don’t see that siding with her disease‑altered perception over the 24/7 caregiver doesn’t make them loyal.
It makes them dangerous.
And you get to protect her from that, too.
When You Have to Allow Blocking People for Her Safety (and Your Sanity)
Here’s where it gets real spicy.
I said allowed… I don’t block. I get accusations of being the one who blocks. But I never block. I get people unblocked when she blocks them. I allow blocking to stay for the health of the mind and body.
Her stress translates to medical ER visits. Brain atrophy is medical, but so is a panic attack, which can look a lot like a stroke or heart attack.
Sometimes, people will not respect boundaries.
Not after you explain once. Not after you explain ten times. Not even after you say, “Hey, when you do this, she spirals, and I’m the one holding the pieces afterward.” For some, it seems to be a fun sport of torture.
So you do the thing that feels extreme:
You block numbers on her phone.
You mute threads that send her into a panic.
You take away direct access to her inbox.
You ask that all updates and big conversations go through you.
And then you get hit with:
“How dare you control who she talks to.”
“You’re cutting us off.”
“You’re isolating her.”
“You’re being mean to us.”
Let’s be clear:
If your texts regularly spike her panic, confuse her, or convince her she’s in danger when she’s not?
I am going to choose her heart rate over your access to her inbox.
Every. Single. Time.
Blocking you is not a declaration of war.
It’s a firewall.
You had every opportunity to adjust your behavior before we got here.
If you insist on bringing emotional gasoline into a memory that already sparks on its own—yes, I’m going to take away your matches.
The Myth of “Family Unity” in the Middle of a Wildfire
There’s a lot of pressure to keep everything “peaceful” and “unified” when someone is sick.
You hear things like:
“We’re all she has; we can’t be fighting.”
“She wouldn’t want us to be divided.”
“Family is everything right now.”
Sounds lovely.
Here’s the problem: unity without safety is just group denial.
If “keeping the peace” means:
Ignoring medical realities. #alzheimer’sismedical
Letting unsafe things happen so nobody gets their feelings hurt.
Silencing the caregiver so everyone else can stay comfortable.
That’s not unity.
That’s sacrificing the person with the disease—and the person doing the actual labor—to the god of Appearances.
My job is not to make sure everyone feels included in decision‑making. #Not #About #You
My job is to:
Keep her alive and as calm as possible.
Keep myself functional enough to do that.
Reduce preventable disasters.
If that means certain people get less access, fewer unsupervised visits, or no more direct health updates?
So be it.
Good Vibes Only? Absolutely Not.
We live in a culture that loves a redemption arc.
People want:
Inspiring updates.
Lessons about “gratitude” and “staying positive.”
Neat little bows on stories that are, in reality, blood and snot and paperwork and 3 a.m. panic.
“Look for the silver lining.”
“At least she’s still here.”
“Try to focus on the good moments.”
Sure. And while I’m at it, maybe I’ll manifest my way out of these legal forms.
Positive thinking does not:
Untangle neurons.
Prevent falls.
Pay for care.
You are allowed to cling to whatever comfort you can find.
But I am not required to turn this into a Hallmark movie for your feed.
I am allowed to say:
“Today was brutal.”
“I’m drowning.”
“This isn’t okay.”
Talking about the storm is not “negative.”
It’s what you do when you’re the one mopping the floor.
How Not to Be the Extra Boss Level the Caregiver Has to Beat
If you love her—and I believe you do—and you don’t want to accidentally become the final boss in the caregiver video game, here’s the cheat sheet.
1. Before You React, Ask: Is This About Her, or About My Feelings?
Pause for one breath and check:
Am I upset because she’s unsafe?
Or am I upset because I feel left out, judged, or uncomfortable?
Your feelings are valid.
They just shouldn’t be steering policy.
2. Treat Boundaries as Instructions, Not Suggestions
When the caregiver says:
“Please don’t call after 9 p.m.”
“Please avoid talking about money or driving.”
“Please check with me before planning outings.”
Those are not:
Openers for debate.
Challenges to your authority.
Invitations to test how serious we really are.
They are instructions based on crash‑tested experience.
You have two honest options:
Respect them.
Admit you can’t, and step back.
Anything else is sabotage dressed up as concern.
3. Swap “Let Me Know” for One Real Thing
“Let me know if you need anything” is usually code for: “Please never actually ask me for anything concrete.”
Upgrade it:
“I can come every other Wednesday from 3–5. Do you want a nap, a shower, or a solo grocery run?”
“I’ll handle getting her prescriptions once a month so you don’t have to.”
“I can be the one who updates the extended family so you don’t field 12 duplicate texts.”
“I can schedule through you to make it easier for her.”
One real thing, done consistently, is worth more than all the vague offers in the world.
4. Don’t Weaponize “What She Would Have Wanted.”
Yes, she once said:
“I never want to be a burden.”
“I hope y’all never have to take care of me.”
“Promise you’ll let me live my life.”
She said that before dementia.
Nobody builds their bucket list like:
Step 1: lose my memory.
Step 2: scare the hell out of everyone.
Step 3: make my kids fight about boundaries on Facebook.
Using her old wishes to argue against what she needs now is not loyalty.
It’s emotional blackmail.
“What she would have wanted” has to be translated through:
Her safety today.
Her capacity today.
Her dignity today.
Sometimes what she would have wanted then and what she needs now are not the same.
That’s the disease’s fault. Not the caregiver’s.
5. If You Don’t Understand, Say That—Don’t Undermine
It is perfectly acceptable to say:
“I don’t fully get it, but I trust you.”
“This is hard for me to see; help me understand what I’m missing.”
What’s not helpful:
“You’re making it worse.”
“You’re too intense.”
“If you’d just relax, she’d be fine.”
You also hear the unspoken subtext in their reactions:
“You’re dead to me until I need something.”
“You’re unhinged.”
“You’re mean to us and treat us poorly because we won’t find a compromise between what we see and what you say isn’t reality.”
If “relaxing” prevented brain changes, we wouldn’t be here.
Permission Slip, Part Three: You’re Allowed to Protect Yourself, Too
This part is for you, caregiver.
You are allowed to:
Mute the group thread that spikes your cortisol every time your phone lights up.
Stop explaining yourself to people who have already decided you’re the problem.
Keep numbers blocked that consistently destabilize her and shred you.
Shrink the circle of who has direct access to her and you, based on behavior—not titles or DNA.
You are not petty.
You are not overreacting.
You are triaging.
If you burn out completely, nobody wins.
Except maybe the nursing home brochure somebody is secretly Googling at 2 a.m. while insisting they “could never” put her in a facility.
The Bubble, the Bleachers, and the Bridge
We’re all grieving the same person from different angles.
You, in the bleachers, are grieving the stories you had with her.
I, in the Bubble, am grieving those and the version of my own life I lost somewhere between meds, appointments, and midnight wandering.
Most people aren’t trying to hurt the caregiver.
They’re trying to survive their own fear with half the information.
That doesn’t mean you have to hand them the steering wheel.
We may never agree on every boundary.
That’s fine.
What’s not fine is asking the person in the fire to also smile and reassure everyone else that the smoke is “not that bad.”
If you want to understand what it feels like inside this mess, go back to Part One: “This Shit Is Bananas: Inside the Alzheimer’s Bubble No One Warned Us About.”
If you want to understand why your grief and highlight reel don’t always match my reality, read Part Two and the follow‑up: “This Shit Is Bananas, Part Two: When Alzheimer’s Turns Caregiving Upside Down” and “Spectator Grief vs. Caregiver Reality: When Your Denial Becomes My Problem.”
This Part Three is the boundary chapter—the messy, necessary part where I choose her safety and my survival over everyone else’s comfort.
This shit is still bananas.
But if we’re all going to live in this orchard, the least we can do is stop throwing peels in each other’s path—and maybe, just maybe, reach out a steadying hand when someone starts to slip.
