Tonight I’m not sure what to write. There is so much swirling around in my head right now that I don’t know where to begin. Or how. I am in transition in a lot of ways this year. Sometimes I no longer recognize myself.

Lately I find myself exploding into profanity over really stupid things, like flipping the eggs wrong in the pan (the egg folded up and the yolk broke) or tripping over the hole in the floor. Today I had a fit over a box of Good n Plenty when I discovered they are now using GMO ingredients. Such a small thing. But for me it’s a big thing, because Good n Plentys were my comfort food. Now I have to give them up because I’m getting sick every time I eat them.

But the Good n Plenty isn’t the real issue. I’m not sure what the real issue is. I’m not one to swear over much of anything, and every time I explode, it surprises me. Sometimes I don’t even feel angry (or else I’m not aware of it). But the words start spewing out of me: f-ing b*tch, c*nt, stupid a$$hole,—all those hateful words. They pour out like a river while my brain yells at me to stop, and poor Jack sits there looking shocked. But the words are never directed at Jack. They are only directed at me.

It feels safer to get angry at myself. That is something I don’t usually share. I can tolerate spewing venom at myself because I’m used to doing it. The problem is, when I’m caught in the anger, I can’t find any words strong enough to express just how useless I am, how clumsy and foolish and undeserving. That tells me that the anger might not actually be at me, because if it was I could articulate it clearly. I would know exactly why I was mad at myself and limit my anger to that.

I don’t get angry at Jack, because he can’t control what’s happening. The dementia is not his fault. But when he doesn’t understand something no matter how many times I explain it, or accuses me of showing off because I know how to turn the hot water on, sometimes it’s all I can do to keep from screaming. But not at him. I use all my strength to not get mad at him.

I am angry at the dementia and what it has done to my husband. I do everything I can to keep it from taking over, and he is still disappearing in front of me. This is probably the only place I can admit to how unfair it all is, how we didn’t ask for this. We had different plans, and this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Every time Jack loses ground, I have to learn acceptance all over again. It is a perpetual challenge that breaks my heart more often than I care to admit. It is hard to watch Jack struggle to grasp what used to come so easily; things like left and right, getting his shoes on the right feet, like dentures and hearing aids, zippers and belts. I help him with all of these now. Still, even though this helping has become second nature, some remote part of my heart grieves and storms and rages at the unfairness. This has been my life for a year now and I still can’t absorb the reality.

I am grateful for this blog. It gives me a place to put these hard truths, so I can clear them out of my heart and continue moving forward. I know some of my words are not easy to read. But they are honest and real. They share a journey that I never planned to make, never in my wildest dreams thought I would be living through. They help me to continue living through it, to find the strength to keep going. Writing has always been my salvation, and this is especially true right now.

But I don’t just write for myself. I write for everyone who is walking this same path, the ones who know the joys and the sorrows of caregiving. I write about the things that are usually left unsaid. I share those hidden things because I know I’m not the only one who feels them. And I know how it feels to feel alone.