Feelings of resentment

Feelings of resentment as a full-time carer are real. I break it down in my mind as not disliking the person, but rather the situation the disease creates. I love my Mum with all my heart, but the dementia version of my Mum, not as much. It took a lot for me to come to terms with this, separating the two people when all I saw was one. I felt immense guilt when describing my Mum in ways I never thought I would.

My 'Mum' loves me, encourages me, and shaped me into who I am today. My dementia Mum not so much; this version drains me, doesn't appreciate me, takes me for granted, is jealous and nasty to me, puts me down, and says hurtful things. Who would enjoy caring for such a person?

I felt immense guilt with every eye roll, when she'd follow me around the house for the umpteenth time, as I tried to get a minute to myself from feeling overstimulated. The annoyance when a simple noise woke her from her nap, when I was trying to complete tasks around the house, meaning I would have to stop and leave things unfinished. The clench in my jaw when she asked me the same question repeatedly. The ick I got from her new tics during sun downing, her constant pacing making me dizzy. Tugging at the front door for yet another walk, her constant curtain twitching drove me round the twist.

This is my Mum, after all; the Mum I had before has disappeared, only to reappear in lucid moments.

I watched as people around me continued with their lives, forgetting this was completely normal and something that wouldn't have bothered me before. Why should it? I wouldn't have even noticed what people were doing in their day-to-day lives. Instead, I started to resent and think, 'I should be able to.'

I have chosen to give back, and I give back to my Mum, not my dementia Mum. I often felt bad for making things about myself in my mind. 'What about me?' was something I always asked myself. I wasn't the one living with dementia, yet I was the one LIVING with dementia, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I was exhausted and felt unappreciated.

I miss her in every conversation, speaking as if she has already passed on, when in reality, she is sitting in the same room. I have days when I need to talk in codes with family members because, I get no privacy, but still feel the need to update them with new things, hoping they'd see how much I'm really dealing with. The only responses were, 'You're doing such a good job, I couldn't do it.' The anger I'd feel with the lack of sleep, and a version of Mum who showed no remorse because of it.

I learned that everything I said fell on deaf ears, ears that no longer understood compromise nor reason. The experience has been life-changing so far, and I know worse will come. Things will get harder and more complicated. I lose more and more of myself the longer I am absorbed into the life of a carer. I know that one day I will have to step back and let others in, which is my worst fear. This will mean my Mum has truly disappeared, no longer returning even if just for a moment, watching strangers see her as a job rather than; a human being, a Mum, a Nan, a Daughter, a Sister, an Aunt, a Cousin, nor a friend.