Is This a Superpower or Terrifying? How She Copes When Her Brain Glitches

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Is This a Superpower or Terrifying? How She Copes When Her Brain Glitches

Spicy Alzheimer’s Series – Part 2

Part 1 was about what everyone refuses to see: the spicy, brilliant mind still fully alive under the memory glitches — and the way outsiders and the system love to pretend it’s “not that bad.”

Now we’re going deeper.

Into the weird. Into the liminal. Into the stuff people whisper about, dismiss as “hallucinations,” or ignore because it doesn’t fit neatly in their little assessment forms.

This is where she lives now: halfway between this world and wherever her brain keeps wandering off — using dark humor and defiance as life rafts while professionals jot down, “Affect appropriate, patient pleasant.”

Pull up a chair. It’s about to get uncomfortable. #youaskedforit

The Lady in the White Dress (a.k.a. the Visitor No One Wants to Talk About)

One day, she asks, casually — like she’s asking about the weather:

“Did you tell him about the lady in the white dress visiting?”

No. No, I did not mention that.

Why? Because the system trains you to hide anything that sounds “too weird,” in case they decide she’s suddenly a bigger problem than they want to deal with.

I did not tell him about the lady in the white dress.

I did, however, get yelled at the day before and dismissed because she was pissed when she found out I had sent the woman away. #wtaf

Because in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about symbolism or neurology or grief showing up in white linen.

I was thinking: Why are you alone with visitors I can’t see while I’m over here trying to keep you tethered to this planet? What exactly did I do?? #forfuckssake

She, on the other hand, is delighted.

Laughing. Giggling, actually.

She cannot tell you the date. She may or may not be able to tell you her age.

But she can damn sure tell you:

• The year she was born, perfectly

• The exact floor we’re on in the building

• How would she alter the recipe to make it better

• How she blocked…[insert name] but can’t figure out why they won’t answer the phone when she calls

• That she hates your hair and what she would give to be able to change it to something she feels is pleasing or edgy, circa 1980s

Two out of six orientation questions right… while having side conversations with a woman in a white dress.

The system labels it “visual hallucination,” checks a box, and moves on.

They don’t see what I see: a mind that is still engaging, still narrating, still trying to make meaning out of chaos.

Do I know what the lady in white means? No.

Do I know she’s real to her? Yes.

And if something is real to her, dismissing it like it’s nothing is just another way the world tells her:

“We believe the chart more than we believe you.”

Two Out of Six and Still Talking to Ghosts

Here’s the part no one prepares you for:

You can have both at the same time.

• The woman who knows where she is.

• The woman who’s talking to visitors no one else sees.

The system wants tidy categories: oriented or disoriented, here or gone, safe or unsafe.

But Alzheimer’s lives in the in‑between:

• She misses four out of six basic questions…

• …and then casually asks if you remembered to lock the back door and charge your phone.

She remembers the building layout but not the day of the week. She’ll forget what month it is, but remember exactly which neighbor always parks like an idiot.

And yes, some days, she also has conversations with people the rest of us can’t see.

The question professionals ask is:

“Is she a danger to herself or others?”

The question I’m asking is:

“Is anyone going to help her make sense of this?”

Spoiler: the answer to that second question is usually no.

Watching Life from Behind Her Own Shoulder

Then there’s this conversation.

She looks at the therapist — the one paid to “support” her through this — and says:

“Is it weird I can disconnect, like I’m sitting behind my own shoulder watching the world go by and adjusting as time passes?”

Let me translate that for anyone who’s never dissociated in their life:

My brain is so overwhelmed that it’s starting to float away from itself just to survive.

He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no.

He says something safe and neutral, like:

“Well… let’s talk about that. How does it make you feel? Is this a superpower, or is it scary?”

Superpower or scary.

Welcome to mental health in a system that wants everything to be a growth opportunity.

She giggles:

“It’s my defiance when I can’t remember. And why are you asking me? I have Alzheimer’s and can’t remember shit.”

Her passion was psychology, ancestry, hair, and adjusting to the next trauma coming.

Everyone in the room smiles because the line is funny.

But let’s be clear: this is not just a cute quote.

This is a woman describing dissociation as a survival skill. This is a nervous system pulling the emergency brake. This is her saying: If I can’t control what my brain is doing, I’m at least going to choose how I react to it.

And what does the system do with that?

Probably writes, “Expresses insight with humor.” And then moves on to the next patient.

Dark Humor as Armor (Not a Personality Quirk)

People hear her say:

“Why are you asking me? I have Alzheimer’s and can’t remember shit.”

…and we all laugh like it’s just a sassy line.

No.

That’s battle strategy. That’s armor. That’s a woman refusing to let the disease or the room pity her.

Dark humor is not her being “lighthearted.” It’s her way of saying:

“If I don’t joke about this, it will destroy me.”

Meanwhile, the world uses her humor as evidence that things aren’t “that bad.”

“Oh, she still has such a good sense of humor!”

Yes, she does. And she’s using it to survive a brain that keeps glitching while you underestimate her.

Her jokes are not a sign that the disease is gentle. They’re a sign she’s still fighting.

Superpower, Symptom, or Both?

So is this ability to disconnect — to float behind her own shoulder, to mock her own failing memory — a superpower or a symptom?

The honest answer: both.

• It’s a symptom because it’s her brain and body trying to protect her from overwhelm.

• It’s a superpower because she’s choosing to use it instead of letting it swallow her.

She’s turning survival mode into personality.

Of course, the system doesn’t frame it that way. It’s either “hallucination,” “delusion,” or “coping mechanism,” depending on who’s filling out the form.

No one is asking what it actually feels like to live that way 24/7.

No one is saying, “That sounds terrifying and exhausting, and I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

They hand her a mood scale. They hand me a caregiver burnout survey.

They call it care.

The Invisible Labor of Translating Her Reality

Here’s what you don’t see when you’re not here:

I am constantly translating between worlds.

Her world — where the lady in the white dress is real, the timeline is scrambled, and dark humor is oxygen.

Their world — where everything has to be coded, charted, and kept inside diagnostic language.

Every time I decide what to share with a doctor, what to downplay, what to reframe so they don’t overreact or underreact — that’s labor.

I’m editing her reality into something the system can swallow.

And then I go home and edit the system’s reality for her:

• I soften their jargon.

• I rephrase their condescension.

• I hide how little help they’re actually offering.

Meanwhile, everyone keeps acting like I’m “just” a daughter, or spouse, or friend.

No.

I’m a translator for a war no one trained me for.

The System’s Comfort vs. Her Actual Experience

The healthcare system loves what’s measurable:

• Orientation questions ✔️

• Mood rating scales ✔️

• Fall risk scores ✔️

What it does not love:

• The lady in the white dress

• The feeling of watching your own life from the outside

• The way humor and rage are the only things standing between her and total collapse

Those things don’t fit into checkboxes, so they get ignored or minimized.

But those are the things that define our actual days.

That’s what I’m dealing with at 3 p.m. in the grocery store aisle and 3 a.m. when she wakes up disoriented and furious.

The system is built for clean stories: early-stage, middle-stage, and late-stage. Mild, moderate, severe.

She is messy. In‑between. Alive. Complicated.

So the system edits her down.

I refuse to.

Tech‑Savvy, Ghost‑Talking, Still Here

Add another layer: she’s tech‑savvy.

This is not a woman sitting in a rocker staring at a wall.

This is a woman who:

• Can still use her phone

• Can still scroll

• Can still FaceTime you and roast you

• Can still send a sharp text when she’s annoyed

…and then turn around and:

• Ask you the same question five times, or

• Insist she talked to someone who’s been dead for years.

• She never said that or sent this…L must have.

Try explaining that to someone who only stops by for holidays.

They see the text messages and think, “She’s fine.”

They don’t see:

• The meltdown when the app updates, and she can’t find a button that’s been in the same place for months.

Tech use does not cancel out brain disease.

It just gives her one more thing to lose — and one more thing for the world to misinterpret.

Superpower, Scary, and Completely Ignored

So, back to the therapist’s question:

“Is this a superpower or scary?”

Here’s my answer:

It’s a superpower. It’s scary. It’s exhausting. It’s invisible to almost everyone who doesn’t live with her.

And it is absolutely not being handled with the depth, respect, or support it deserves.

The system is more comfortable tracking whether she can count backwards from 100 than acknowledging she sometimes feels like she’s floating behind her own body, trying not to scream.

But this — this floaty, half‑in/half‑out, ghost‑visiting, joke‑cracking, brain‑glitch reality — is where we actually live.

Every. Single. Day.

Why I’m Telling You This

I’m not writing this so you can say, “Wow, that’s wild,” and move on.

I’m writing this because:

• Family needs to stop saying, “She seems fine,” every time she nails a joke or remembers one detail.

• Professionals need to stop pretending hallucinations and dissociation are just little side notes.

• Caregivers need someone to say, “No, you’re not crazy — this really is as intense as it feels.”

She’s not just losing memory.

She’s living in a world that flickers, folds in on itself, and sometimes opens doors to places I’ll never see.

And instead of getting honest support for that, she gets checklists.

We get platitudes.

And the world keeps scrolling.

What’s Coming in Part 3

In Part 3, we’re done being subtle.

I’m putting it all in a Spicy Alzheimer’s Checklist — not for her, but for the people around her:

• The family that doesn’t get it

• The friends who say the wrong shit with good intentions

• The professionals who only see her for 15 minutes

• The people who think tech use and dark humor mean she’s “doing great.”

You want to be in her world? Do you want to be in our world?

There’s a way to do it without making everything harder.

And if you don’t want to learn that way, fine.

But don’t you dare stand on the sidelines, watching a woman fight a war in her own head, and say:

“She seems fine.”

Because she is not fine.

She is fighting — with ghosts, with time, with her own brain — and using humor, defiance, and whatever scraps of logic she has left as weapons.

The least you can do is stop looking away.

Hot Tips for Caregivers Living in the “Glitch Zone”

You might be reading this and thinking, “Oh shit, this is us.” Here are some grounded, spicy‑honest tips pulled straight from this stage:

1. Treat what’s real to them as real — and work with it.
If she sees a lady in a white dress, you don’t have to agree or argue. Try: “She sounds important to you. Do you feel safe with her?” You’re not feeding delusion — you’re honoring her emotional reality.

2. Stop oversharing “weird” stuff with people who don’t get it.
You’re allowed to be selective with what you tell professionals and relatives. Share what affects safety and care. You don’t owe them every intimate detail of her inner world if they’re only going to minimize or pathologize it.

3. Translate once, then put it in writing.
Instead of re‑explaining the same stories at every appointment, write a one‑page summary: hallucinations, dissociation, dark humor, and what actually happens at 1 a.m. Hand it to every new provider. Save your voice for her.

4. Name her coping skills out loud.
When she jokes, “I have Alzheimer’s and can’t remember shit,” you can respond with: “Your humor is ruthless, and it’s keeping you alive in this. I see that.” It validates that she’s not just “being funny” — she’s surviving.

5. Anchor her in something besides orientation questions.
If time and dates are slippery, anchor her in what still feels solid: “You’re at home. I’m here. We’re safe. The door is locked. The phone is charged.” Safety beats trivia every time.

6. Protect your own nervous system.
Watching someone you love talk to ghosts and float outside themselves is brutal. Give yourself micro‑exits: step into another room, splash water on your face, text someone who gets it, scream into the notes app. You’re not weak; you’re human.

7. Don’t let outsiders use her jokes against you.
When people say, “She’s still so funny! She seems fine,” it’s okay to answer with: “Her humor is how she survives what you don’t see.” You don’t owe them a full TED Talk — just enough truth to stop the gaslighting.

If this is your life, you’re not overreacting.

You’re just living in a reality most people are too scared — or too comfortable — to look at closely.