Welcome to Dazey’s Diary, a darkly funny, unfiltered look at caring for a fierce, stubborn woman with Alzheimer’s amid family chaos and denial. Come for the messy truth and stay because it feels like someone is finally saying what you’ve been thinking.
Dearest Diary,
How did a messy bun 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?
For fuck’s sake, I am so tired of hearing that I “got what I wanted” from the others. Their entitled mantra goes something like this: what they wanted, I got—full responsibility. My grand prize was 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 who got handed the whole damn mess and was told to be grateful. And when I offered real info, honest challenges, and what needed to change, I got handed the unhinged, control-freak Munchhausen’s crazy titles of today. I treated 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, and all would be forgiven… or ‘do we have to block you again?’ “ block me, I don’t give a rat’s ass” convos …..
How Dazey’s Diary Was Born
It started with rage‑typing.
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. I never set out to be a writer—hell, most days I’m just trying to keep the wheels from flying off. I was just 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 did drama—all in reverse.
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 have 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 their own:
“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, for what they were confused about, 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 stay 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 blows the lid off, calls out the chaos, and makes damn sure nobody feels as alone—or as silenced—as I did at the start.
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.
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.
That’s what Dazey’s Diary is:
A messy, honest, unfiltered record of what it really looks like to love someone through Alzheimer’s—and to try not to lose yourself in the process completely.
If you’re here, you’re probably tired too. You’re probably over the sugar‑coated stories. You want the real shit.
You’re in the right place.