I DON'T WANT TO BE SOMEONE'S EMERGENCY PLAN

Someone says they’ll go somewhere, work their ass off, and send me money.

They’ll take care of me. And for a second, there is relief.

Because when you're financially cornered, hearing “I'll take care of you” can feel like someone has finally opened a window in a room where you've been running out of oxygen.

But then another thought comes in. 

Quietly. Almost immediately. And what happens after three months?

Not metaphorically. Not philosophically. Literally.

What happens when those three months are over?

What happens when the money that covered my food suddenly isn't there?

When the electricity bill comes? When Wi-Fi needs to be paid?

When I need transportation? When something breaks?

When the debt collectors don't suddenly develop compassion because I've had a difficult year?

When the divorce is finally finished and there is no longer a legal process to hide behind?

What happens when everyone assumes: “Okay. She's divorced now. Her life should be starting again.”

But I'm sitting there thinking: Starting with what money?

That's the part that scares me. Because three months of help can keep someone alive.

But it doesn't necessarily build a life.

And I don't want to reach month four with the same empty bank account, the same uncertainty, the same debts, the same panic...

except now I have one additional problem: the person helping me has already done everything they could.

Then what? Do I call again?

Do I say, “Sorry, I know you already worked yourself to exhaustion for me, but could you please save me for another month?”

And then another? And another?

Until helping me becomes someone's full-time unpaid emotional and financial position?

No. I don't want that.

And here's where my feelings get complicated. Because I know the offer comes from love.

That's what makes it hurt. I'm not rejecting the person. I'm rejecting the situation.

I don't want to be loved through constant rescue. 

I want to be loved while standing on my own feet. There is a difference.

A massive one.

I can be grateful for someone's willingness to help me and still feel ashamed that I need it.

I can appreciate someone's sacrifice and still hate the fact that they have to make it.

I can say thank you while a completely different part of me is screaming: PLEASE DON'T LET THIS BECOME NECESSARY.

Because I don't want to become someone's responsibility.

I don't want anyone waking up thinking about whether I have enough money to eat.

I don't want someone calculating their own expenses around mine.

I don't want someone working harder because I haven't managed to get back on my feet yet.

And I certainly don't want to become that person who keeps saying: “Just help me until I get through this.”

Because what if this never ends? What if three months becomes six?

Six becomes twelve?  And suddenly my temporary crisis has quietly become my lifestyle?

Absolutely fucking not. My ego would like to file a formal complaint.

Unfortunately, my bank account has already rejected the appeal.

Because somewhere underneath all this anger is something much less dramatic and much more painful: I feel useless.

And I hate admitting that. Because I'm not useless.

I know I'm not. I have skills. I have experience. I know how to work.

I know how to organize things. I know how to learn. I know how to solve problems.

I have survived things that would have made plenty of people lie face-down on the floor for a week.

And yet...

Right now, none of that feels particularly impressive when you're staring at an account balance and wondering how you're going to make next month work.

Apparently, years of experience don't automatically convert into cash.

What a shocking design flaw in adulthood.

You can have a résumé. You can have education. 

You can have ideas. You can have determination.

And still have absolutely no idea how you're going to pay for next Tuesday.

That's where the humiliation comes from. Not from being poor.

From knowing you are capable of more and not being able to access that version of yourself quickly enough.

That's what makes me angry. Not that someone wants to help.

But that I need help right now. And I don't want right now to become forever.

I want a solution that starts changing the situation.

Fast.

Once the divorce process is finally over, I don't want to sit down and have another conversation about who is going to support me.

I want to have a conversation about work.

Income. Bills that I can pay myself. Money that I earned myself.

A future that doesn't depend on whether somebody else has enough left in their wallet to rescue me again.

I want to reach the point where someone offers: “I'll take care of you.”

And I can honestly say: “I know. And thank you. But I'm okay.”

Not because I don't need people. Not because I suddenly became invincible.

But because I finally have enough of my own ground underneath me.

I don't need luxury. I don't need some ridiculous millionaire fantasy.

Although, let's be honest, if a financially stable miracle wants to accidentally fall into my lap, I'm not going to file a police report.

But that's not the point. I don't need someone to give me a new life.

I need a way to rebuild my own. I need income that doesn't disappear after three months.

I need stability that doesn't depend on someone else's exhaustion.

I need enough money to stop waking up already calculating what could go wrong.

I need enough to buy food without guilt. Pay bills without panic.

Handle an unexpected expense without immediately thinking: “Who am I going to ask?”

I want to stop asking that question. That's the real goal.

Not becoming rich. Not proving anything to anyone.

Just reaching a place where an unexpected expense is an inconvenience...

instead of a fucking catastrophe. And maybe that's why I lashed out.

Because sometimes fear disguises itself as anger.

Sometimes humiliation disguises itself as pride.

Sometimes gratitude gets tangled up with guilt until you don't know whether you're crying because someone loves you...

or because you desperately wish you didn't need them to.

So yes. I'm scared. I'm frustrated. I'm embarrassed. I'm angry.

And sometimes I feel useless. But I'm not giving up.

Because there is still a stubborn little part of me saying:

This cannot be the final version of my life.

The divorce can end. This financial mess can change.

My income can change. My circumstances can change.

I can become useful to myself again. I can become financially independent again.

Maybe I won't rebuild everything overnight. Fine.

But I need something to start. Something real.

Something fast enough to give me breathing room.

Because I've spent enough time surviving one emergency after another.

I don't want another three months of survival. I want month four to look different.

I want to wake up and know: I have my own income. I have my own plan. 

I can take care of myself.

And if I still need someone beside me sometimes? Fine.

I'm human. But I don't want someone carrying me.

I want someone walking beside me. There's a difference.

And maybe that's what I'm really fighting for now.

Not to prove that I don't need anybody. 

But to finally be able to say: “Thank you for saving me when I couldn't save myself.

But please don't make a life out of saving me. I want to learn how to stand again.”

Excuse Me ?????

 WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THREE MONTHS?

Someone says they’ll go somewhere, work their ass off, and send me money.

They’ll take care of me. And the horrible thing is I know that comes from love.

That’s what makes it harder. Because I’m not angry that someone cares about me.

I’m angry that they feel like they have to.

Those are two completely different things, but when you’re already drowning, they somehow get tangled together until you can’t tell whether you’re being held or being reminded that you can’t stand on your own.

I hear: “I’ll take care of you.”

But somewhere inside my head, it translates into: “You can’t take care of yourself yet.”

And suddenly I’m fighting an argument nobody actually said.

Three months. That number keeps echoing in my head.

What happens after three months?

Do we have another meeting? 

“Congratulations. Your emergency support period has ended. Please select a new suffering package.”

Maybe there’s a subscription plan. Three months of financial assistance.

Six months if you upgrade. Premium includes emotional damage, anxiety, and one complimentary existential crisis.

Very affordable. Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.

Because I don't want this. Not because I don't appreciate the help.

I do. God, I do. And maybe that's part of why I feel so conflicted about it.

Gratitude and shame are surprisingly good roommates.

They can sit next to each other in the same room and make you completely miserable.

You can be grateful someone is willing to sacrifice for you…

while simultaneously hating yourself for needing the sacrifice.

You can love someone deeply and still desperately want them to stop having to worry about you.

You can accept help…

and still feel like every rupiah comes with a tiny invisible receipt attached to your dignity.

And that's where my anger comes from.

Not entitlement. Not laziness. Fear.

Fear that this temporary situation will quietly become my permanent identity.

Fear that people will start looking at me and seeing someone who needs to be maintained.

Fear that I'll get comfortable being rescued.

Fear that I won't find my way back to myself.

And perhaps most of all: fear that I won't become useful again.

That's a horrible thing to admit. Because I know I'm not actually useless.

I know that. On paper, I'm still a human being with skills, ideas, hands, a brain, experience, and an unreasonable amount of stubbornness.

But emotions don't care about evidence.

Sometimes your brain looks at your empty bank account and decides that's your entire résumé.

Apparently my current financial situation is now my professional qualification.

Excellent. Five stars. 

Would definitely recommend this psychological experience to absolutely nobody.

And I don't want someone else to spend their strength compensating for the fact that mine has been depleted.

I don't want someone else to work themselves into the ground while I stand there feeling guilty for breathing.

I don't want to become a permanent emergency. 

I don't want to be someone's unfinished responsibility. 

I want to work. I want to earn. I want to contribute.

I want to have enough money that helping someone else doesn't immediately feel like I'm stealing from my own future.

I want to open my banking app without preparing emotionally for the horror movie.

I want to buy something ordinary without conducting a forensic investigation into whether I deserve it.

I want to pay my own bills. I want to rebuild savings.

I want to have an emergency fund instead of being the emergency.

That last one matters more than I can explain.

I don't want to be the emergency anymore.

I want to be the person who can handle one.

And maybe that's why the question— “What happens after three months?” —hurts so much.

Because I don't have a satisfying answer yet.

The divorce process needs to end.

My life needs to settle. I need income. I need something stable.

Something fast enough to stop this constant feeling of falling.

Not necessarily some grand career. Not some glamorous reinvention.

Not a miracle. Just something real.

Something that gives me a floor again.

Because right now I'm trying to build a future while standing on a surface that keeps moving underneath me.

And it's exhausting. There are days when I feel like I should be doing more.

Days when I feel guilty for resting. Days when I feel guilty for needing help.

Days when I feel guilty for not having figured everything out already.

And then I remember: I'm trying to rebuild my life while one chapter is still being legally torn apart.

Of course I'm tired. Of course I'm scared. 

Of course I don't have a perfectly formatted five-year plan.

I'm not a fucking corporation. I don't have a quarterly earnings report.

Although, considering my current financial situation, the shareholders would probably demand my resignation.

And still I don't want to surrender to this.

That's the part I wish people could understand.

When I lash out, sometimes it isn't because I don't appreciate what someone is offering.

Sometimes it's because I appreciate it too much, and I don't want that kindness to become the thing holding my entire life together.

I don't want love to turn into obligation. I don't want help to turn into dependency.

I don't want temporary survival to become a permanent arrangement.

And I don't want the people I love to spend their lives paying for the consequences of a chapter they didn't write.

So yes. I'm scared. I'm frustrated. I'm embarrassed. I'm angry.

Sometimes I feel completely useless.

Sometimes I feel like I've somehow become a spectator in my own life.

But underneath all of that is still one very stubborn thought: I want to get myself back.

Not the old version. Maybe that version is gone. Maybe that's okay.

I just want a version of myself who can stand up again.

Who can earn again.

Who can make decisions without calculating who will have to rescue her afterward.

Who can hear, “I'll take care of you,” and actually be able to answer: “Thank you. But you don't have to carry me forever.”

That's the future I'm trying to reach. Not because I don't need anyone.

Because I want to be able to love people without needing them to save me.

And if I sound desperate for a quick solution right now…

it's because I am.

I need something that can settle me down once the divorce is finally over.

I need income. I need stability. I need a direction.

I need one solid piece of ground. Because I've spent enough time surviving.

At some point, I would like to start living.

And maybe that's the most reasonable unreasonable request of all.

I don't want someone else to save me.

I just need a way to become capable of saving myself again.

WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THREE MONTHS?

Apparently, I have reached that beautiful stage of adulthood where people start discussing my survival like I'm a temporary government project.

Someone says they will go somewhere, work their ass off, and send me money.

They'll take care of me. And instead of feeling warm and grateful and dramatically collapsing into someone's arms like the heroine of a cheap afternoon soap opera...

I get angry. Because my brain immediately asks: Okay. And then what?

Three months. Six months. A year.

What happens after that? Do we schedule another emergency meeting?

“Congratulations. Your three-month survival package has expired. Please contact customer service for renewal.”

Because that's exactly what I don't want.

I don't want someone sacrificing their own back, knees, sleep, energy, and remaining patience just to keep me afloat.

And I don't want to sit there pretending everything is fine because somebody else is paying for my survival.

I don't want to be someone's responsibility. I want to be responsible for myself.

There is a very uncomfortable difference between being helped and becoming dependent on someone else's ability to keep helping you.

And maybe that's why I snapped.

Because somewhere underneath all the anger was this ugly little feeling I've been trying not to look at: I feel useless.

Not because I don't want to work. Not because I'm lazy.

Not because I enjoy sitting around waiting for money to fall from the sky.

Trust me, if money fell from the sky, I'd have already installed a very aggressive rain gutter.

I want to work. I want my own income.

I want to wake up knowing that the money in my account came from something I did.

Not money sent because someone felt sorry for me.

Not money sent because someone was afraid I'd run out.

Not money sent because someone decided they had to rescue me.

I want to be able to buy my own damn coffee one day without mentally calculating whether that cup of caffeine has committed a financial crime.

I want to pay my own bills. Buy my own food. Replace things when they break.

Have emergency money. Have savings.

Have the luxury of saying, “No, I can't afford that,” because I chose not to spend the money—not because there is literally nothing left to spend.

And most of all...

I want to stop feeling like my existence is creating a financial problem for someone else.

That's the part nobody really understands.

When you're already struggling financially, even an offer of help can sometimes feel like a mirror.

And suddenly you don't see kindness.

You see yourself standing there with an invisible sign around your neck: PLEASE SUPPORT THIS ADULT HUMAN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Fantastic. Exactly what my self-esteem needed. As if divorce wasn't already enough.

As if rebuilding my life wasn't already enough. 

As if losing financial stability wasn't already enough.

Now my brain has decided to add: “Congratulations! Here's a bonus identity crisis.”

Because I'm not trying to build some luxurious fantasy life right now.

I don't need a yacht. 

I don't need a mansion.  

I don't need a billionaire husband riding in on a white horse with a financial statement and excellent credit history.

Although I'm not going to lie. That would certainly simplify the paperwork.

What I need is much less glamorous.

I need stability. I need income. I need a way out of this financial limbo.

I need something that can settle me down once the divorce process is finally finished.

Something that makes me feel like I'm standing on the ground again instead of constantly balancing on the edge of a cliff wondering who is going to catch me when I fall.

Because I don't want to spend the next three months breathing a sigh of relief...

only to wake up on month four and realize: Oh. Shit. Now what?

That's the question haunting me. 

Not “Who will save me?”

But: “How do I save myself fast enough?”

And yes, I know.

Life doesn't come with an express checkout lane.

There is no button labeled:

DIVORCE COMPLETED → FINANCIAL STABILITY → PLEASE CLICK HERE FOR A NORMAL LIFE.

Wouldn't that be convenient? 

Click. Divorce finalized.

Click. Debt disappeared.

Click. Job secured.

Click. Savings restored.

Click. Nervous system repaired.

Unfortunately, reality apparently enjoys making us fill out seventeen forms while standing in line.

So yes, I'm scared. Yes, I'm frustrated.Yes, sometimes I feel useless.

And yes, sometimes that fear comes out as anger because anger is easier to carry than humiliation.

But don't mistake my panic for surrender.

I'm still looking. Still trying. Still figuring out where the next door is.

Because I don't want to be someone's burden. 

I don't want to be someone's three-month project.

I don't want my survival to depend on how long another person can keep working themselves into the ground.

I want my own damn life back. Maybe that's the real unreasonable request.

Not asking someone else to take care of me.

But expecting myself to eventually become capable of taking care of me.

And I will. I just need to find the damn shortcut.

Because honestly I've already paid enough for the long way around.

3 Months

Sometimes the most unreasonable request isn't even a request.

It's someone basically telling you: “I'll work my ass off for you. I'll send you money. I'll take care of you.”

And somehow, instead of feeling relieved, you feel like you've just been handed another reason to hate yourself.

Because what happens after three months?

What happens when the person helping you gets tired?

What happens when the money stops?

What happens when you realize you're not supposed to be someone's permanent responsibility?

That's the part that hurts. I  don't want to be rescued forever.

I don't want someone working themselves into the ground because my life fell apart.

And I definitely don't want to be treated like I'm incapable of taking care of myself.

I'm not jompo.  I'm just fucking stuck.

There is a difference. I need a solution. A fast one.

Not another lecture. Not another temporary rescue.

Not another three months of surviving and then panicking about month four.

I need something that can actually settle me down once this divorce process is finally over.

A job. An income. 

Something stable enough that I can breathe again and say: “Okay. I can take care of myself now.”

Because right now, the worst feeling isn't being broke.

It's feeling useless while desperately trying not to become a burden.

And maybe that's why I lashed out. Because underneath the anger was fear.

What the hell happens after three months?

You Can't Calculate My Divorce Using Someone Else's Marriage

There is something people keep forgetting about my situation.

And honestly? It explains a lot.

People hear that I'm getting divorced and immediately start doing mathematics that have absolutely nothing to do with my actual marriage.

“But I know someone whose husband gave her this.” “My friend's husband did that.”

“If he has money, why doesn't he just give more?” “A husband should provide this.”

Okay. Sure.

But here's the part everyone seems to forget: You cannot calculate my divorce using someone else's marriage.

You can't take another woman's husband, another woman's relationship,

another woman's financial situation, another woman's emotional connection,

put all of it into a blender, and somehow produce the answer to my divorce.

That's not how this works.

Because there is one very uncomfortable reality sitting in the middle of all of this: 

you cannot keep expecting generosity from a man who no longer has an emotional connection to his wife.

That's the part people keep missing. They see: husband + money + divorce

and think: Well, surely he can just give more.

But I see something completely different. 

I see a marriage that has been emotionally over for a long time.

I see a man who has already detached himself from the relationship.

I see two people who are no longer functioning like a husband and wife.

And when the emotional connection is gone, you cannot simply assume the generosity of the man who once loved you is still sitting there waiting to be accessed.

That's not how human beings work. 

Money is one thing. Legal responsibility is another. Generosity is something else entirely.

And apparently those three things have been thrown into the same fucking soup. 😂

There is a huge difference between: “He has the ability to give.”

and “He wants to give.” And another difference between: “He wants to give.”

and “He is legally or morally obligated to give.”

Those are three completely different conversations.

Yet somehow people love collapsing them into one sentence: “If he can afford it, why doesn't he just give it to you?”

Because maybe he doesn't want to.

Maybe the emotional relationship that once made generosity feel natural is gone.

Maybe the man who once looked at me as his wife now looks at me as someone he is trying to separate his life from.

That's painful. But it's reality.

And I would rather deal with reality than build my expectations around an imaginary version of my husband who suddenly wakes up one morning, experiences a dramatic emotional transformation, and decides: “You know what? Let me make this divorce financially wonderful for everyone.” 😂

Please. That sounds like a Netflix ending. Not my life.

And I don't need to pretend otherwise. 

I also don't want people comparing my situation to another woman's marriage.

Because maybe her husband loved her differently. Maybe their marriage was different.

Maybe they had children. Maybe they had different agreements.

Maybe he wanted to provide voluntarily. Maybe they were still emotionally connected.

Maybe he simply chose to give her more. Good for her.

Honestly. I'm not bitter about another woman receiving something good.

But her marriage is not my marriage. Her husband is not my husband.

Her relationship is not my relationship And her divorce is not my divorce.

So please stop using someone else's husband as a calculator for mine. 😂

And here's another thing I've learned: I don't want to ask for something ridiculous simply because somebody else received it.

I don't want to turn divorce into an auction. Who knows someone whose husband gave more? Anybody have a higher bid? Going once... going twice...

Astagfirullah. I'm getting divorced, not selling a fucking antique vase.

I want what is reasonable. What is defensible. What can actually be negotiated.

What my lawyer believes makes sense. I want to walk away knowing I protected myself.

Not knowing I made an outrageous demand because somebody else's marriage looked financially better from the outside.

That's not strength. That's desperation wearing expensive clothes.

And I'm trying very hard not to make decisions from desperation anymore.

Because I've already lived enough of that. I have my own financial mess to deal with.

I need work. I need stability. I need to rebuild my savings.

I need to figure out how to stand independently again.

I need to make sure that when this marriage finally ends, I don't collapse financially along with it. 

So yes, I will ask for what is reasonable.

I will negotiate. I will listen to my lawyer. I will protect my interests.

And I will let the actual circumstances of my marriage determine what happens.

Not somebody else's husband. Not somebody else's story.

Not somebody else's fantasy. 

Because there is another uncomfortable truth: You cannot negotiate emotional generosity out of someone who has already emotionally left.

You can negotiate terms. You can negotiate money. You can negotiate responsibilities.

You can negotiate agreements. But you cannot negotiate someone's heart back into the room.

And I'm finally done pretending that I can. 

For a long time, I thought maybe if I explained enough, waited enough, understood enough, adjusted enough, the emotional connection would come back.

It didn't. So I'm not going to make the same mistake with money.

I'm not going to imagine that because he once loved me, he will automatically want to financially take care of me now.

Those are different chapters. And pretending they're the same chapter will only hurt me more.

So, dear well-meaning people who have opinions about what my husband should give me:

Thank you. Really. I appreciate the concern. 

But unless you are willing to sit inside this marriage, inside the years of distance,

inside the conversations, inside the silence, inside the emotional separation,

inside the actual legal process, please don't calculate my future using someone else's husband.

Because you are looking at the balance sheet. I'm looking at the wreckage.

And those are not the same thing. 

I don't need a fantasy husband. I need a realistic settlement.

I don't need revenge. I need stability. I don't need to prove that he can afford something.

I need to know what I can reasonably secure and rebuild my life from there.

And perhaps that's the most grown-up thing I've learned from this whole fucking disaster: Sometimes protecting yourself means accepting reality instead of negotiating with the version of someone you wish still existed.

The marriage is ending. The emotional connection is gone.

That's painful enough. I don't need to make it more painful by expecting generosity from a place where there is no longer any emotional attachment.

I'll let my lawyer handle the numbers.

I'll handle rebuilding myself. And everyone else can kindly stop using other people's husbands as the measuring tape.

Because this is my divorce.

Not theirs. And apparently, that's one calculation I'm finally getting right.

You can't ask generosity from a man who doesn't have emotional connection

And there is one thing people seem to be forgetting.

You cannot keep calculating a man's generosity based on the marriage he used to have when that man has already emotionally left the marriage.

That's the part everyone seems to miss. 

 

They look at what other husbands have given their wives.

They compare. They calculate.

They say, “But if he has money, why doesn't he just give more?”

Because apparently everyone forgot one tiny detail: money may follow obligation, but generosity usually follows emotional connection.

And when the emotional connection is gone? 

You cannot simply walk into the man's wallet and expect the version of him who used to love you to still be standing there.

That man is gone. The marriage is ending. The emotional attachment is gone.

The relationship is being reduced to paperwork, responsibilities, negotiations, and whatever the law says each person is entitled to.

That's reality.

Not: “But someone's husband gave her this.”

Not: “I know a woman whose husband did that.”

Not: “If he really cared, he'd give her everything.”

That's not how this particular story works.

You can't use somebody else's marriage as the financial blueprint for mine.

And honestly? If generosity could be summoned by family gossip, every divorce lawyer would be unemployed. 😂

 

What I can ask for is what is reasonable. 

What I can negotiate is what is defensible.

What I can pursue is what my lawyer believes I have a legitimate basis to pursue.

But I am not going to build my expectations around somebody else's husband, somebody else's marriage, or somebody else's fantasy of what a wealthy man should voluntarily hand over to his estranged wife.

Because estranged is the important word everyone keeps skipping.

They see the husband. I see the distance.

They see the money. I see the emotional connection that no longer exists.

They see what he could give. 

I have to deal with what he is actually willing to give.

And those are two very fucking different things. 

 

So no. I'm not waiting for some magical burst of generosity from a man who has already emotionally checked out of the marriage.

I'm dealing with reality. And reality, unfortunately, doesn't come with a rich-husband comparison chart.

It comes with a lawyer, paperwork, negotiations, and a woman trying to make sure she doesn't walk away from four years of marriage with nothing but emotional damage and a fucking folder of documents.

And frankly? 

That's enough administrative trauma for one lifetime.

Dear Younger Sis In Law

Today I realized something. 

For years, I somehow became the emergency fund of the family.

When someone had a problem, Dika will find a way.

When someone needed money, Dika will figure it out.

When life became difficult, Dika will manage somehow.

And yes, I did. Not because I am rich.

Not because I have a secret money tree behind my house.

Not because money comes out of my ass whenever someone calls me with a problem.

I just kept scraping whatever I had. Again. And again. And again.

Until there was almost nothing left. But maybe that was not obvious enough.

Because today I was listening to someone talking about debts, children, household expenses, and money.

Meanwhile, my own life is currently standing in the middle of a fucking divorce.

I am unemployed. I am trying to rebuild my finances.

I am trying to figure out how to stand on my own feet again.

I am trying to recover from years of emotional exhaustion.

And somehow, I am still expected to listen to everybody else's financial emergency.

Amazing. My life is already  an administrative horror movie, and apparently the universe decided to add another subplot. 😂

Dear younger sis-in-law, I don't blame you for having problems.

Everyone has problems. 

Children need money. Marriage needs money. Life needs money. 

Being an adult is basically an expensive subscription that nobody remembers signing up for.

I understand that. 

What I don't understand is how people can forget that the person they are talking to might also be drowning.

Just because I don't announce every wave doesn't mean I am standing on dry land.

I have been quiet about my own problems for a long time. Maybe too quiet.

Since 2018, after my father left, I have been scraping myself together to support Ibu Suri.

I did it without complaining. I borrowed.I went without.

I looked at bills and decided which problem could wait another week.

I smiled when I wanted to scream. 

I said, “I'll figure it out.”

So many times that everyone started believing it was some kind of superpower.

It is not. It is just exhaustion with good public relations.

And today I suddenly thought, when did my ability to survive become everybody else's assumption that I will always have something left to give?

Because sometimes there is nothing left. Sometimes the cupboard is empty.

Sometimes the bank account looks like it has personally declared war on me.

Sometimes the person everyone thinks is strong is quietly wondering how the hell she is going to survive the next month.

And somehow, she is still expected to understand.

Still expected to reassure everyone. 

Still expected to say,“It's okay.”

No. Maybe it is not okay. 

Maybe I am tired. Maybe I don't have another hidden reserve.

Maybe my emergency fund is currently just my nervous system.

And that account is already overdrawn. 😂

I also need to say something to myself. 

I have spent too many years thinking that if I don't help, I am selfish.

If someone is struggling and I have even a little capacity, I should give it away.

As if being useful is the only proof that I am a good person.

But there is a difference between being generous and slowly turning yourself into a public utility.

I am not a fucking water company. You cannot keep opening the tap because you assume there will always be water.

Eventually, someone has to notice that the reservoir is empty.

And mine is. Or at least, dangerously close.

So, dear younger sis-in-law, I hope things get better for you. 

I hope your debts become manageable. I hope your children are healthy.

I hope your household becomes lighter. 

I hope you don't have to keep wondering where the next payment will come from.

I mean that.

But I also need to learn something I should have learned a long time ago: Your emergency is not automatically my responsibility.

And my exhaustion does not become less real just because someone else's problem sounds louder.

That is not cruelty. That is a boundary. 

Apparently, boundaries are the new luxury item in this family.

Very expensive. Very difficult to find. Limited stock. 😂

And maybe this will sound savage.

Fine. Let it. 

I have spent enough time making everybody comfortable while I was uncomfortable.

I have spent enough time shrinking my own needs because someone else had bigger ones.

I have spent enough time saying, “Maybe next month.”

Maybe next month I will worry about myself. Maybe next month I will save something.

Maybe next month I will buy what I need. Maybe next month I will breathe.

But somehow, next month kept becoming another year.

And I am done donating my future to everybody else's present.

I need my life back. I need money. I need work. I need stability. I need my own savings.

I need to stop living like one unexpected expense can destroy everything.

I need to rebuild something that belongs to me. Not because I suddenly became selfish.

Because I finally understand that I cannot rescue people from a sinking boat while I am quietly making holes in my own.

And yes, I know what people might say. “Family should help family.”

Yes. Family should help family.

But family should also understand when another family member is barely keeping herself afloat.

Love is not supposed to mean, “How much more can we take from the person who has always given?”

That is not family. That is an unpaid position with unlimited responsibilities and no retirement plan. 😂

And here is the truth. I am not financially okay. I am not emotionally okay.

I am not magically fine just because I managed to smile.

I am rebuilding. From fucking rubble. I don't know how long it will take.

Maybe that is embarrassing. Maybe it is not.

But it is the truth. So if I become quieter about money, if I stop offering,

if I stop rescuing, if I start calculating every rupiah before I spend it,

please don't mistake that for me becoming cold.

I am trying to survive. There is a difference.

I spent years being the person who found another solution. 

Now I need to become the person who finds one for herself.

And maybe that is the most savage thing I can do.

Not scream. Not fight. Not blame. Not explain myself for three hours.

Just quietly stop being everybody's backup plan. Because I finally realized something:

I cannot keep building other people's roofs while standing outside in the rain.

So, dear younger sis-in-law,  I hope things get better.

I really do. But please understand something. I am no longer the emergency fund.

I am the emergency. And this time, I am saving myself.

Maybe one day I will be financially comfortable enough that a mountain-sized problem will not sound like the apocalypse.

But today, I am looking at my own life and thinking, Dika, girl. 

For once, save something for yourself. Save the money. Save the energy. Save the strength.

Save the little piece of yourself that keeps getting handed out because everyone assumes you can make another one tomorrow.

Because maybe the woman who has spent years saying, “Don't worry. I'll figure it out.”  

finally deserves to say, “Actually, I am figuring out my own life first.”

And no, that does not make me heartless. It makes me fucking tired.

There is a difference.

After everything I have survived, I think I am finally allowed to choose myself without writing a seventeen-page apology afterward.