“THERE’S NOTHING THERE!”: The Moment I Became the Caregiver I Swore I’d Never Be
It was the sixth time that day.
“They’re running!” my mother exclaimed, pointing at the curtains with trembling hands. “The little people—they’re scared! They’re trying to escape!”
I’d already explained it five times. Five patient, gentle explanations that the curtains were just curtains, that the breeze was making them move, that the little builders she saw in the floral patterns weren’t real.
Five times I’d held her hand and soothed her fears.
But this time? This sixth time?
I snapped.
“THERE’S NOTHING THERE, MOM!” The words erupted before I could stop them. “LOOK! THERE’S NOTHING HERE!”
My voice was sharp. Loud. Angry.
The kind of voice I’d promised myself I’d never use with her.
She froze. Her trembling hand—already shaking from Parkinson’s—went still mid-air. Confusion and hurt flickered across her face.
And just like that, I became what every caregiver fears becoming: someone who takes their exhaustion out on the person they’re supposed to protect.
The Reality No One Talks About: Caregivers Get Angry
Let me tell you something that dementia care pamphlets don’t mention and support groups whisper about but rarely say out loud:
Caregivers lose their temper.
We get frustrated. We get angry. We raise our voices. We say things we instantly regret.
Not because we’re bad people.
Not because we don’t love the person we’re caring for.
But because caregiving for someone with dementia is relentlessly, crushingly, soul-exhaustingly hard.
The Numbers
According to research:
- 80% of family caregivers report significant stress
- 40-70% experience clinical depression
- 50% report anger and frustration as regular emotions
I am not an outlier. I’m the statistic no one wants to become.
The Build-Up: How I Got to the Breaking Point
The outbursts didn’t come from nowhere. They were the result of accumulated exhaustion, repeated triggers, and a caregiving load that had slowly crushed my patience into dust.
The Hallucinations Were Constant
By this stage of Mom’s Parkinson’s dementia, hallucinations dominated our days:
- Morning: “There’s someone in the attic.”
- Afternoon: “The little people are building on the curtains.”
- Evening: “The woman stole my clothes again.”
- Night: “I hear voices outside.”
Every. Single. Day.
The Repetition Was Maddening
But it wasn’t just the hallucinations—it was the endless repetition.
The same question asked twenty times in an hour. The same accusation made five times before lunch. The same fear expressed, soothed, and then expressed again ten minutes later.
“Where are my clothes?” “Right here, Mom.”
Ten minutes later: “She took my clothes.” “No, they’re here.”
Ten minutes later: “My clothes are missing.”
Over and over and over again.
I Was Completely Alone
My siblings helped when they could:
- My sister Sarah came weekly for Mom’s bath
- My brother visited when possible
But the day-to-day, hour-by-hour, relentless grind? That was all me.
I was:
- The cook
- The nurse
- The medication manager
- The emotional support
- The translator between her reality and actual reality
- The only person standing between her and complete confusion
Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. No breaks. No backup.
I Wasn’t Sleeping
The nights were the worst.
Even when Mom slept (thanks to the low-dose sleeping pill the neurologist prescribed), I couldn’t.
I’d lie awake, hypervigilant, listening for any sound from her room. Sometimes I’d wake up convinced I’d heard her calling my name—only to find her sleeping peacefully.
The phantom calls were almost as exhausting as the real ones.
My Life Had Disappeared
I’d quit my job to care for her full-time. My social life was non-existent. I hadn’t been anywhere except the doctor’s office and grocery store in months.
Every conversation, every thought, every moment revolved around her needs, her fears, her reality.
I had ceased to exist as a separate person.
And all of this—the exhaustion, the isolation, the repetition, the loss of self—built up like pressure in a closed container.
Until something had to give.
The Triggers: What Made Me Snap
Looking back, I can identify specific triggers that pushed me past my breaking point:
1. The Moving Hallucinations
When the “little builders” on the curtains started moving, Mom’s fascination turned to fear. And fear meant agitation.
Agitation meant more questions, more panic, more need for reassurance.
And I had run out of reassurance to give.
2. The Medication Disaster
After one doctor’s visit, they added a new medication meant to help with the hallucinations. Instead, it made her manic.
The woman who struggled to get out of bed was suddenly racing around the house, chasing phantom intruders with terrifying energy.
For a week, I barely slept, constantly afraid she’d fall or hurt herself in her frantic state.
When I finally stopped giving her that pill (against medical advice, but out of desperation), the mania stopped—but the trust in medical “solutions” was gone.
3. Her Physical Decline
Her legs were failing. Each step was a monumental effort. I’d brought a wheelchair into the house.
Watching her lose mobility while her mind created more and more elaborate hallucinations felt like a cruel joke.
4. The Invisible Family and the Stolen House
The theft accusations had escalated. Now the invisible woman wasn’t just stealing clothes—she was trying to take our house.
“I need my ID!” Mom would panic. “She’s at city hall signing papers! She’s taking the house!”
The fear in her eyes was real. The threat was not.
But convincing her of that? Impossible.
5. No Validation
The hardest part? She never acknowledged my exhaustion.
Not because she was selfish—she simply couldn’t. Her brain couldn’t process my needs anymore. Every conversation centered on her hallucinations, her fears, her reality.
I was drowning, and she couldn’t see the water.
The Outbursts: When I Lost Control
I didn’t lose my temper just once. It happened multiple times over the course of months.
The Curtain Incident
The one I described at the beginning—yelling about the “little builders”—was probably the worst.
The volume of my voice startled her. The anger in it confused her. And the fact that it didn’t convince her made me feel even more helpless.
“NO ONE’S STEALING YOUR CLOTHES!”
This one happened after the fifth time in one afternoon she accused the invisible woman.
I’d opened the closet, shown her every garment, proved nothing was missing.
And still: “She took them.”
“NO ONE IS STEALING YOUR CLOTHES! THEY’RE RIGHT HERE! LOOK AT THEM!“
I gestured emphatically, my voice rising with each word.
She just looked at me with sad, confused eyes.
“THERE’S NO VAN!”
When she became convinced the woman had brought a van to load up her belongings, my patience snapped again.
“There’s no van, Mom! No one’s taking anything! It’s just your mind playing tricks!“
Even as the words left my mouth, I knew they were useless. Cruel, even.
You can’t logic someone out of dementia.
The Guilt: The Weight That Never Lifts
The guilt after each outburst was crushing.
Immediate Regret
The moment the anger passed—sometimes mid-sentence—the shame would flood in.
She’s sick. She can’t help this. What kind of person yells at their sick mother?
Her Reaction Made It Worse
She never yelled back. Not once.
She’d just look at me with hurt and confusion, sometimes reaching out to touch my hand as if to comfort me.
The person I’d just snapped at was trying to make me feel better.
That made the guilt unbearable.
The Internet’s Judgment
Late at night, unable to sleep, I’d search online:
- “Yelling at parent with dementia”
- “Caregiver losing temper”
- “Am I a bad son”
The articles were well-meaning but often made me feel worse:
“Stay calm and patient.” “Never raise your voice.” “They can’t help it.”
I knew all that. Knowing didn’t make it easier.
The Fear of Who I Was Becoming
Each outburst made me fear I was turning into someone I didn’t recognize.
Was I becoming abusive? Was I damaging her further? Was I making her final years worse instead of better?
These questions haunted me.
What I Learned About Caregiver Anger
Through research, therapy conversations (yes, I finally reached out), and painful self-reflection, I learned some truths about caregiver anger:
1. Anger Is a Symptom of Burnout
My anger wasn’t really about the curtains or the stolen clothes.
It was about:
- Bone-deep exhaustion
- Complete loss of control
- Grief for the mother I’d lost
- Fear for the future
- Isolation and loneliness
The hallucinations were just the trigger. The anger came from burnout.
2. You Can’t Pour From an Empty Cup
I’d given everything—every ounce of patience, every moment of time, every fragment of my former life.
There was nothing left to give.
And yet the demands kept coming.
3. Anger at the Disease, Not the Person
I wasn’t angry at my mother. I was angry at Parkinson’s. At dementia. At the cruelty of a disease that steals someone while leaving their body behind.
But she was the only target available for that anger.
4. It Doesn’t Make You a Bad Caregiver
This was the hardest lesson to learn: Losing your temper occasionally doesn’t make you abusive.
There’s a difference between:
- A stressed caregiver having a bad moment and immediately feeling remorse
- Someone who systematically mistreats a vulnerable person
I was the former, not the latter.
But the guilt made it hard to see the difference.
What Actually Helped
Once I recognized I was burning out, I made changes:
1. I Asked for Help
I swallowed my pride and told my sister how close I was to breaking completely.
She coordinated with our brother to give me one afternoon a week off—just four hours where I could leave the house.
It wasn’t much. But it was oxygen.
2. I Accepted Medical Help
The sleeping pill the doctor prescribed for Mom? It helped her sleep through the night.
Which meant I could sleep.
That one change—getting more than 3-4 hours of broken sleep—made an enormous difference in my patience.
3. I Stopped Trying to “Fix” Her Reality
I learned to meet her in her world instead of dragging her into mine.
Instead of: “There’s no one in the attic.” I said: “I’ll check to make sure everything’s okay.”
Instead of: “Those clothes aren’t stolen.” I gathered the clothes and piled them where she could see them.
I stopped arguing with the hallucinations and started addressing the fear beneath them.
4. I Gave Myself Permission to Have Bad Days
Some days I was patient and calm. Some days I wasn’t.
Both types of days were part of caregiving.
Accepting that I wasn’t going to be perfect every moment freed me from some of the crushing guilt.
5. I Found Small Moments of Joy
Music became our bridge. When I played songs from her youth, she’d sing every word perfectly—a window into who she used to be.
Those moments reminded me why I was doing this.
For Caregivers Who’ve Lost Their Temper
If you’ve yelled at your loved one with dementia, please hear this:
You Are Not a Monster
You’re a human being under impossible stress caring for someone with an impossible disease.
One Bad Moment Doesn’t Define You
What defines you is:
- That you came back
- That you felt remorse
- That you’re still trying
- That you’re still there
Your Breaking Point Is a Warning Sign
Losing your temper means you need support. Not judgment—support.
- Respite care
- Therapy
- Support groups
- Medical evaluation for the person you’re caring for
- Help from family or community
It’s Okay to Not Be Okay
Caregiving grief is real. Caregiver burnout is real.
You’re allowed to struggle. You’re allowed to have moments where you fail to be who you want to be.
What matters is what you do next.
The Conversation I Wish I’d Had With Myself
If I could go back to that moment when I yelled at my mother about the curtains, here’s what I’d tell myself:
You’re not failing her. You’re drowning.
The anger isn’t about her—it’s about a disease that’s taken your mother and left this frightened, confused woman in her place.
You need help. You need sleep. You need someone to acknowledge that what you’re doing is impossibly hard.
One bad moment doesn’t erase the thousands of good ones.
You’re allowed to be human. You’re allowed to break. And you’re allowed to ask for help putting yourself back together.
She doesn’t remember this outburst. But you will. So learn from it. Make changes. And forgive yourself.
Because if you don’t, the guilt will destroy you faster than the exhaustion will.
The Truth About Long-Term Caregiving
Here’s what no one tells you when you become a full-time dementia caregiver:
You will have moments you’re ashamed of.
You’ll lose your patience. You’ll say things you regret. You’ll feel anger at someone who can’t help their condition.
Not because you’re cruel.
But because you’re human.
And being human means having limits.
The key is recognizing when you’ve reached those limits and doing something about it before you break completely.
Where We Are Now
I still lose my patience sometimes.
Last week, after the tenth repetition of “Where are my clothes?” I felt the familiar frustration rising.
But this time, instead of showing her the closet again, I took a breath and said:
“They’re safe, Mom. I made sure of it. Would you like some tea?”
She smiled. “Yes, please. You’re so good to me.”
And just like that, the moment passed.
I’m not perfect. I’m still exhausted. I still have days where I want to scream into the void.
But I’m learning. Slowly. Painfully.
Learning that love in caregiving isn’t perfection.
It’s showing up. Again and again. Even after the bad days.
Especially after the bad days.
Continue Reading
This is one chapter in our ongoing journey with Parkinson’s dementia.
📖 Read the complete story: Whispers From the Attic on Amazon
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Have you lost your temper as a caregiver? You’re not alone. Share your story in the comments—this is a judgment-free space.
Resources for Caregiver Burnout
- National Caregiver Support: 1-800-677-1116
- Alzheimer’s Association 24/7 Helpline: 800-272-3900
- Caregiver Action Network: 855-227-3640
- Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
If you’re in crisis, please reach out. You matter too.
Cristian cares for his mother with Stage 4 Parkinson’s disease and dementia in Romania. He’s not a perfect caregiver. Just a human one. Follow their journey at HopesForMom.com.
