Dazey’s Diary Origin Story.
Dazey’s Diary: Origin Story – How a Messy Bun, Memory Care, and Total Burnout Led to This (with copious amounts of coffee)
Author’s note: I write about Alzheimer’s, memory care, generational dysfunction, and what it’s really like to be the one who stayed. This series includes swearing, anger, and dark humor. If you’re a caregiver, read this the way you do everything else right now: in small bites, with lots of grace for yourself.
The Cottage · 2020s · Late Night
Dearest Diary,
How did a messy bun, coffee that had gone cold hours ago, and another sleepless night in memory care turn into this blog? Better yet, how did I even end up with long enough hair for a bun? And cold coffee sucks!
For fuck’s sake, I am so tired of hearing that I “got what I wanted” from the others. Their entitled mantra sounds like: what they didn’t want, I got — full responsibility. My grand prize was being their excuse to disappear from the hard parts.
This is not the story of the smiling, saintly caregiver who “wouldn’t have it any other way.” This is the story of the person handed the whole damn mess and told to be grateful.
When I offered real info, honest challenges, and what needed to change, I was handed today’s favorite labels: unhinged, control freak, Munchhausen’s, crazy. I was accused of treating them poorly, not her… them.
When I repeatedly explained, defended, excused, and begged, I was told to “lower the temp, give them what they wanted, all would be forgiven, if…”… or, “Do we have to block you again?”
Block me. I don’t give a rat’s ass.
Those are still the convos 9 years into a professional Diagnosis!!! #asyouwish #fuckit
How Dazey’s Diary Was Born
It started with rage‑texting, hers, theirs, eventually mine to them. Their replies… ooof, it was a lot.
Every brutally honest post I made turned into more DMs. Strangers whispered into my inbox:
“You too? I have a totally different experience than others do.”
“I thought I was the only caregiver losing it.”
“I wish someone had warned me it could get this dark and absurd.”
Each message felt like a dare: keep telling the truth — even when the world begs for neat, hopeful stories tied up with inspirational bows.
What began as a tiny blog for the truths no one sees became a lifeline. A counterbalance to their vile contempt for the changes that had to be made for the safety of mind and body — first for her, and then for the rest of us who live in and out of the Bubble.
I never set out to be a writer — hell, most days I’m just trying to keep the wheels from flying off. I was spewing edited fragments of what happens after you set boundaries and routines, try to balance the “spice” of a fierce personality with short‑term memory loss, and live inside the chaos of she‑said / he-said drama — all in reverse.
Some days it’s love, some days it’s survival, and most days it’s rage‑typing under a messy bun. That’s Dazey’s Diary — the receipts, the dark humor, and the reality of caregiving from inside the Alzheimer’s Bubble. If this hit a nerve instead of a Hallmark moment, you’re exactly where you need to be. If not for validation that you aren’t alone, then for a shake-your-ass sassy diary you can escape to for a few.
Our Alzheimer’s Journey Didn’t Follow the Script
People love to share caregiving stories with a soft, filtered ending. That’s not what happened here.
For us, the memory‑care angry phase came first, not last.
The “sassy ass” you supposedly have to be as a caregiver? It didn’t come from me at first — it came from her. The comments, the attitude, the wild one‑liners. And then the spectators — the ones on the sidelines — lapped that shit up like it was a lifeline for themselves:
“You can’t treat us like that…”
“That’s not what she said…”
“You’re overreacting…”
All while they were finally, for once, being held accountable. For what they did. For what they said to her. For what they were confused about, her with them versus the bubble she created for memory-loss survival. For showing up only when it made them look good.
Meanwhile, I had to live in this energy:
“If you won’t help, get out of the fucking way.”
Not because I wanted drama, but because I wanted peace. And because I wanted her — the woman with Alzheimer’s, the one who still loved fiercely in her own way — to remain in the only place she adored:
The Cottage.
From Chaos to Community
My chaos online built a community I didn’t know I needed: caregivers, burned‑out daughters, exhausted partners, and people who swore they were “fine” until they read a post and realized they weren’t.
This space — Dazey’s Diary — is for anyone slogging through this kind of hell. The kind where:
You’re the default decision‑maker.
Everyone has an opinion, but no one shows up for the 3 a.m. emergencies.
You’re either the “best caregiver ever” or the unhinged villain, sometimes in the same hour.
This blog doesn’t tie anything up with a bow. It sets the world on fire, calls out the chaos, and makes damn sure nobody feels as alone — or as silenced — as I did at the start. #burnbaddieburn
Why I Keep Writing
I needed a bigger container for the chaos, the receipts, and the pitch‑black humor. I needed a place for:
The stories that don’t make it into the glossy brochures.
The days I’m convinced I’m failing at everything.
The tiny wins that feel like miracles: a calm afternoon, a joke she still laughs at, a moment of peace.
Most weeks, I’m working endless hours, mostly alone, in a house that looks like a white‑picket‑fence postcard but feels like a locked compound. On paper, it’s charming. In reality, it’s a Bubble — a closed system where everything starts to make a twisted kind of sense. Routines, structure, and boundaries come first, and that’s before the career that funds our lives.
And that’s where this all really takes place:
Inside the Bubble — this strange world built by Alzheimer’s, denial, and generations of dysfunction.
Welcome Inside the Bubble
Generational dysfunction set the stage. The last decade? Batshit crazy.
Trauma. Dark humor in memory care. Spectators who don’t get it — but sure have opinions. A woman with sassy short‑term memory loss, courtesy of Alzheimer’s. And me: the reluctant narrator, the one who stayed. The one who writes it all down so nobody can say, “We had no idea.”
That’s what Dazey’s Diary is:
A raw, honest account of loving someone through Alzheimer’s—trying not to lose yourself while holding everything together. This blog doesn’t wrap things up neatly; it pulls back the curtain on the chaos, the spectators, and the bullshit behind “good intentions.” It ensures no one feels as alone or silenced as I did at the start. If you’re here, you’re probably tired too—done with sugar-coated stories and saintly masks. You want the real stuff. Good. You’re in the right place.
