Apparently, Divorce Has a Waiting Period

Today I went to meet the person handling my divorce.

I thought I was prepared. I wasn't.

Apparently, knowing your marriage is over and actually sitting down to discuss the process of ending it are two completely different experiences.

One is emotional.  

The other comes with paperwork, procedures, timelines, and the deeply comforting sentence:

“It could take around four to eight months.”

Four To Eight Months. Excuse me?

I came here to end a marriage, not apply for a mortgage. 😂

But apparently divorce has its own little administrative universe. There are documents.

There are steps. There are procedures. There are things that have to be filed.

There are things that have to be waited for.

There are things that apparently have to happen before other things can happen.

And somewhere in the middle of all this bureaucracy, there's me.

A woman sitting there thinking: “So… we're really doing this?”

Yes. 

We are.

After everything. After all the conversations that went nowhere. After the silence.

After the emotional distance.

After spending months trying to understand how something that once felt like a marriage became something neither of us seemed able to save.

Now I'm officially starting the process of ending it.

And somehow that feels both enormous and incredibly ordinary.

There's no dramatic music. No courtroom scene.

No one yelling: “I OBJECT!”

Just paperwork. Phone calls. Documents. Fees. Waiting.

And a woman trying very hard not to cry in between administrative explanations.

Honestly, divorce is surprisingly uncinematic. Hollywood really oversold this shit.

I thought there would be some grand emotional climax.

Instead, apparently the final boss is: “Please prepare these documents.” 😂

And after the appointment, I realized I couldn't go straight home.

I was already crying. I needed somewhere to sit. Somewhere anonymous.

Somewhere I could stare into space without anyone asking me why my face looked like I'd just lost a fight with life.

So I went to Kopi Kenangan.

And because apparently one coffee wasn't enough emotional support for a woman beginning a divorce process, I ordered:

1 large Ice Kopi Kenangan Mantan.

Yes.

Mantan. Because apparently Indonesian coffee shops understand symbolism better than most people.

Then somehow that wasn't enough. So I ordered: 1 large Frappe Kopi Kenangan Mantan.

Because apparently I wanted my heartbreak blended.

Then: 1 regular Ice Kopi Kenangan Mantan. At this point, I wasn't drinking coffee. 

I was conducting an intervention on myself. 😂

And because caffeine alone apparently isn't considered a balanced emotional support system, I also had:  1 Adam Ayam Toast.

So there I was. 

Three coffees. One toast. One divorce process. One emotionally exhausted woman.

And approximately zero fucking idea what comes next.

I sat there for about three hours. I cried. I stared at nothing.

I ate. I drank. I thought. I didn't think.

I replayed things. I stopped replaying things.

I wondered how a life can go from husband and wife to divorce case without anyone announcing that the plot has officially changed genres.

And somewhere in those three hours, I realized something.

This isn't the bottom of the story. It might feel like it.

Right now, it feels like another fucking hell pit. 

But the divorce process is just that: a process.

It's not the whole story. It's not my identity.

It's not proof that I failed as a woman. It's not proof that my life is over.

It's paperwork describing the ending of one chapter. That's all.

An incredibly expensive, emotionally exhausting, bureaucratically complicated chapter…

but still a chapter. And maybe that's why today hurt so much.

Because when you start the formal process, you can't hide behind ambiguity anymore.

You can't say: Maybe.

You can't say: We'll see.

You can't pretend the marriage is simply going through a difficult phase.

At some point, you have to look at the situation and say: This is ending.

And today, I did.

Not because I suddenly stopped caring. Not because everything became easy.

Not because I'm celebrating. But because sometimes acceptance doesn't feel peaceful.

Sometimes acceptance looks like sitting in a café for three hours with three iced coffees named after your ex-husband and a chicken toast while trying to understand how the hell you got here. 😂

And you know what?

I'm allowed to be devastated. I'm allowed to cry. I'm allowed to feel angry.

I'm allowed to feel numb.  

I'm allowed to feel relieved for five minutes and destroyed ten minutes later.

Apparently emotional consistency is not included in the divorce package.

Neither is dignity, judging by the amount of crying I did over coffee.

But tomorrow? I'll still be here. The paperwork will still exist.

The process will continue. Four to eight months, apparently.

Fantastic. A whole season of my life dedicated to administrative heartbreak.

Maybe they'll give me a loyalty card. 

Complete five divorce appointments and get one free emotional breakdown. 😂

But today, I started. And maybe that's enough.

I don't need to know exactly who I'll be when this process ends.

I don't need to know what my life will look like afterward.

I don't need to have the next chapter written tonight.

I just need to keep moving through the pages.

One document. One appointment. One terrible day at a time.

And if I have to cry again? Fine.

If I have to sit in another café? Fine.

If I have to stare at another cup of Kopi Kenangan Mantan and question every decision that brought me here?

Apparently, I have already demonstrated a disturbing commitment to the brand. 😂

But I'm still here. Still breathing. Still standing. Still moving.

The marriage may be ending. The process may take months.

Today may have wrecked me. But it didn't finish me. Not even close.

And tomorrow, when I wake up, I'll still be Dika. Maybe a little more tired.

Maybe a little more broken. Maybe a little less certain.

But still here. 

And for tonight, that's enough.