I worked in a care facility for people who suffer from dementia.

This was a very rewarding and enjoyable job but at times it could be confronting and sad, as you'd expect. One story that stuck with me was this lady who'd write in her booklet and always left it open. She didn't care to keep it a secret or anything but I would make sure to keep personal posessions private as much as I could while cleaning the rooms. So I'd close the little book and put it in her desk where she could find it.

It's something I could relate to. I have my own little books and enjoy writing as well and appreciate it when people respect my privacy.

I wouldn't read the contents but I saw the phrases go from sentences, to repeated words, to scribbles. Eventually, she became too confused to put pen to paper. Opening and closing the booklet, carefully touching the paper, but she couldn't quite figure it out anymore. Eventually giving up.

This really hit home to me, as I knew how therapeutic it could be to organise your thoughts on paper. I write when I'm sad or overwhelmed. The thought of her being unable to when she might have needed the outlet still stings.