Living with my father now feels like I’m constantly bracing myself for something I can’t control. His dementia and the way he gets agitated drains me in ways I didn’t even know were possible. It’s not just tiring, it’s consuming. Some days, it feels like I’m just surviving, moving through everything on edge, waiting for the next outburst, the next shift in his mood. Every little change in his tone, his reactions makes my chest tighten. I overthink, I worry, I prepare myself for the worst even when nothing has happened yet. And people say, “don’t take it personally, it’s the disease talking.” I try to hold on to that, I really do. But it’s hard, because sometimes, it doesn’t feel like the disease at all. It sounds like him. The same words, the same actions, things he used to do even before he got sick. And that’s the part that breaks me the most. Because I don’t know anymore where the illness ends and who he used to be begins. And honestly… that’s what makes it so exhausting.