It’s 2 AM and I’m staring at the ceiling again, my phone practically glued to my hand… I just… I don’t even know where to start. My dad called me today, which isn't unusual, except he called to ask if I’d seen “the farmer.” I was like, “Dad, what farmer?” and he got all agitated, saying the old widower down the road, the one who walks his land every morning, hasn’t been doing his checks… and he kept going on and on about how *important* those checks are, like he knew this man personally, like it was a personal affront that this stranger wasn’t keeping his usual routine. And it just… it got to me, you know? Because for a second, I thought he was talking about *me*, about how *I’m* not doing my routine, about how *my* life is completely upside down and I haven't been able to focus on anything beyond getting him fed and bathed and making sure he doesn’t wander off. It’s been weeks since I did anything for myself, months really, and then he’s worried about some random farmer he doesn’t even know. Is that fair? To feel this… this bitter resentment over something so small? I mean, I get it, he’s not really *there* anymore, not fully. His brain is just… gone, sometimes. But it’s still *him*, and sometimes when he looks at me, there’s this flicker of the person who raised me, who taught me to ride a bike, who always knew how to make me laugh. And then he’ll ask me who I am, or why I’m in his house, and I just… I want to scream. I want to tell him I’m giving up everything for him, that my siblings are conveniently MIA and suddenly it’s all on me, that I had plans, a whole life I was building, and now it’s just… this. This constant, exhausting loop of caregiving and worrying and feeling like I’m disappearing into the wallpaper of his illness. And then he’s worried about a farmer’s morning routine? Anyone else just completely lose their mind over the most irrational things their parent says? Am I the only one who feels like I’m teetering on the edge of just… snapping? It’s just… it feels so unfair. I used to be able to just *do* things. Go to work, meet friends, have a conversation that wasn’t about medication schedules or whether he remembered to close the fridge. Now every single interaction is filtered through this lens of his… condition. And then seeing him so concerned about this hypothetical farmer, this man he doesn’t even know, just because his routine is broken… it makes me feel like my own broken routine, my own completely shattered life, is invisible. Like it doesn't matter because *I'm* still here, still functioning, still holding it all together. And I hate that I feel this way. I HATE it. I hate that I’m angry at him for something he can’t control, but I can’t stop it. It’s just… always there, simmering. And I don’t know what to do with it.