When Love Feels Like War
Some days, I look at the man beside me and wonder where he’s gone.Not physically—he’s right there. But everything that once made him him—the humour, the gentleness, the spark in his eyes—has slowly been swept away.He gets angry now. Sometimes even aggressive. Words fly out that cut deep—sharper than anything he ever said when he was well. And I, the woman who vowed to love him in sickness and in health, sometimes feel like I’m caring for a stranger wearing my husband’s skin.
I don’t always get it right.I lose my patience. I cry with the tap running so no one hears. There are days I question if keeping those vows is still the right thing—because love isn’t supposed to feel like this. Like walking on eggshells. Like holding space for someone who forgets how to love me back.And yet—I stay.Because love, I’ve learned, isn’t always gentle. Sometimes it’s fierce. Messy. Gritted-teeth and tear-streaked relentless. And the strength it takes to keep showing up? That’s not the kind anyone claps for.But it’s the kind that keeps him safe. That keeps him here.
The Strength No One Sees
People tell me I’m strong.They see my smile and assume I’m coping.But they don’t see the cracks—the quiet ones. The kind that don’t make noise but leave me hollow by the end of the day.They don’t see me guiding him to the toilet because he can’t remember how. They don’t hear the arguments over nothing. They don’t feel the weight of coaxing him into the shower, or notice the small bruises I hide when confusion makes him lash out.And still, I doubt myself. I wonder if I’m doing right by him when all I feel is tired. When love feels more like endurance than joy.But I get up every morning.Not because I’m unbreakable—but because I broke, and I still chose to stay.That kind of strength? It’s quiet. It’s unseen. But maybe that’s what makes it real.
And maybe that’s what keeps both of us going.
The Night That Won’t Let Go
It’s been weeks since that night he went missing but the fear hasn’t left me.
I still feel it in my chest, like a knot that won’t loosen. I still hear the sound of the door opening. The silence that followed. The moment I realised he was gone.
I did everything I could—installed sensor mats, a Ring camera, a GPS watch that’s supposed to track him. I thought I had created a fortress of safety. But dementia doesn’t respect boundaries. It slips through cracks and disappears into the night, taking your peace with it.
That night was terror. The kind that leaves you cold long after the danger has passed. And it haunts me still. Even now, when I don’t see him in the room, even for a second, my heart races. I check every corner. I look out the window. I replay every step. I don’t relax anymore. I just manage.
And then comes the anger.
I know it isn’t fair. I know he doesn’t understand what he’s putting me through. But sometimes I look at him, and the frustration rises. He doesn’t see the life I’ve had to press pause on. He doesn’t see how tired I am, how alone I feel in this—even when people are kind. He doesn’t see that every day I juggle decisions, finances, medical forms, routines, all while pretending I’ve got this under control.
He doesn’t know that the future I once imagined—growing old together, travelling, doing the small things like reading beside each other—is gone. That I grieve not just him, but us. The version of us that’s slowly being erased.
And what hurts most is that I can’t even be angry at him. He didn’t choose this. Neither did I. But I live in it. Every day.
There are moments I hold it all in so tightly—because what would happen if I didn’t? And then there are moments like this, when the tears fall as I write, and I let myself say the truth:
I’m exhausted.
I’m afraid.
I’m heartbroken.
And yes—sometimes, I’m angry.
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