Apparently, Even the End of a Marriage Needs an Appointment

Today, I went to meet the person handling my divorce.

Not to talk about whether my marriage can be saved. Not to discuss reconciliation.

Not to sit across from my husband and ask one last time, “Are you sure?”

No. This time, I went to talk about how to legally end it.

And somehow that sentence feels heavier when you actually say it out loud.

I am getting divorced. 

Again. There. I said it.

Apparently, saying it to myself wasn't enough. Now I have to say it to paperwork. 😂

I thought I was prepared. I wasn't. 

Because knowing that a marriage is already emotionally dead is one thing.

Sitting down with someone and hearing the practical details of how you're going to officially bury it is something else entirely.

Documents. Procedures. Steps. Forms. Waiting. More waiting.

And then the sentence that nearly made my soul leave my body: “It may take around four to eight months.”

Four. 

To.

Eight.

Months.

Excuse me? I came here to end a marriage. Not apply for citizenship. 😂

Apparently divorce has a waiting period.

Because obviously. You've already waited through the emotional distance.

The silence. The uncertainty. The conversations that went nowhere.

The months of wondering what happened to the person you thought would be beside you.

And then, when you're finally ready to formally end it, the universe looks at you and says:

“Excellent. Now please wait another four to eight months.”

Oh. Wonderful. Nothing says closure like administrative limbo. 😂

There was no dramatic soundtrack. No courtroom.

No judge pounding a table. No one dramatically shouting: “I OBJECT!”

Just me. Sitting there.

Listening to someone explain the process of dismantling a marriage that I once thought was supposed to be my life.

And thinking: So this is how it ends?

Not with a final argument. Not with someone screaming. Not with a dramatic goodbye.

But with: “Prepare these documents.”

Astagfirullah.  Hollywood has been lying to us. 

Divorce is apparently not a dramatic courtroom finale. It's an administrative horror movie.

And I am both the main character and the fucking paperwork. 😂

After the appointment, I couldn't go home. I was already crying.

And I knew if I went straight home, I'd probably spend the entire afternoon sitting somewhere staring at a wall and convincing myself that my life had officially become a documentary called: Woman Attempts To Understand How Everything Went To Shit.

So I went to Kopi Kenangan.  Because apparently emotional collapse requires refreshments.

And because apparently one coffee wasn't enough for a woman who had just started the formal process of ending her marriage, I ordered: 1 large Ice Kopi Kenangan Mantan.

Yes. Mantan. I couldn't have written the symbolism better if I tried.

Then I ordered: 1 large Frappe Kopi Kenangan Mantan.

Because apparently I wanted my heartbreak blended with ice.

Then: 1 regular Ice Kopi Kenangan Mantan.

At this point, I wasn't drinking coffee.

I was apparently trying to caffeinate my way through the five stages of grief. 😂

And because apparently three coffees weren't enough evidence that I had temporarily lost all sense of moderation, I also ordered: 1 Adam Ayam Toast.

So there I was. Three coffees. One toast. One divorce process.

One woman whose emotional stability had apparently been outsourced to a coffee shop.

A beautiful afternoon. Absolutely no notes. 😂

I stayed there for about three hours. I cried. I stared into space.

I ate. I drank. I thought. Then I stopped thinking. Then I thought again.

Because apparently the human brain becomes extremely productive when you're trying desperately not to feel something.

It brings up everything. Every memory. Every conversation. Every unanswered question.

Every version of yourself you thought you'd be by this age.

Every version of the future you thought was waiting for you.

And then it quietly asks: “So… what now?”

Honestly? Fuck if I know. Right now, I don't know.

I just know that something I once called my marriage is now officially becoming a legal process.

And that hurts in a way that is difficult to explain. 

Because divorce isn't only losing the relationship.

It's watching the future you imagined get slowly converted into documents.

The life you pictured becomes a form. The promises become paperwork.

The years become dates. The memories become something you have to carry while simultaneously learning how to let go.

And somehow you're expected to remain functional while doing it.

Answer messages. Prepare documents. Make appointments.

Drink water. Eat properly. Sleep. Work. Plan your future. 

Be reasonable. Be mature. Be okay. 😂

Be okay.  My favorite fictional character. I don't know her.

Today I wasn't okay. 

Today I sat in a café and cried over a marriage that is still technically alive on paper but already feels like something I'm attending the funeral of.

And maybe that's what makes divorce so fucking cruel. 

The marriage can be ending while the person is still alive.

There is no body. No funeral. No flowers. No official mourning period.

Just a living person somewhere in the world, 

and you, trying to accept that the life you were supposed to share with them is no longer yours.

It's grief without a grave. And somehow you still have to fill out forms. 😂

But here's the strange thing. 

Starting the process didn't make me feel free. 

Not yet. It made everything feel more real.

More final. More brutally undeniable.

Because there is a difference between thinking: “Maybe this marriage is over.”

and sitting in front of someone who says: “Okay. Let's start the divorce process.”

The first is fear. The second is paperwork.

And paperwork is fucking terrifying because it doesn't care how emotionally unprepared you are.

It doesn't care if you're crying. It doesn't care if you had plans.

It doesn't care if four years ago you thought this person was going to be your forever.

Paperwork simply sits there and says: Next document, please. 😂

So yes. Today wrecked me. I'm not going to pretend it didn't.

I don't want to turn this into some inspirational bullshit where I suddenly discover my inner goddess while drinking coffee and staring dramatically out a window.

No. I was sad. I was angry. I was exhausted. I cried. A lot.

And somewhere between the second Kopi Kenangan Mantan and the third, I genuinely thought: What the actual fuck happened to my life?

But maybe I don't need to answer that today.

Maybe today is just the day I acknowledge: This is really happening.

The marriage is ending. The divorce process has started. 

It may take four months. It may take eight. It may take longer.

I don't know. And frankly, I'm not emotionally available for the universe to send me another plot twist right now. 😂

But I started. That's the truth. I walked into that appointment. I listened.

I asked what needed to be done. I heard how long it might take.

And I walked back out into the world with my heart feeling like somebody had dragged it behind a moving truck.

Still I walked out. 

Then I found a café. Then I cried.

Then I ate an Adam Ayam Toast. 

Then I drank three coffees with Mantan literally written on the cups.

If that's not dark comedy, I don't know what is. 😂

And maybe tomorrow I'll cry again. Maybe I'll be angry. 

Maybe I'll wake up and feel absolutely nothing. Maybe I'll feel relieved.

Maybe I'll feel like I've made the worst decision of my life.

Maybe I'll feel like I've finally stopped fighting something that has already ended.

Apparently emotional consistency is not included in the divorce package.

Neither is dignity. Clearly.

But I'm beginning to understand something. 

I don't have to be okay with the ending to accept that it is happening.

I don't have to celebrate the divorce. I don't have to romanticize it.

I don't have to call it a blessing. I don't have to pretend this was somehow the plan.

I can simply say: This fucking hurts.

And still keep going.

One document. One appointment. One signature. 

One terrible day. One ridiculous coffee order at a time.

Four to eight months. Apparently that's the sentence I've been handed. 

Fine. 

I'll survive the paperwork. I'll survive the waiting. I'll survive the grief.

I'll survive the days when I feel like I've lost myself.

And eventually somewhere on the other side of all this bureaucracy and heartbreak. 

I'll find out who the hell I am when I'm no longer someone's wife.

Not today. Today I'm too tired.

Today I'm just Dika. 

The woman who started her divorce process, cried for three hours, ate one Adam Ayam Toast, and drank more than enough Kopi Kenangan Mantan to make the entire situation feel personally sponsored by irony. 😂

The marriage is ending. The paperwork has begun. The hell pit is real.

But so am I.

And apparently for now that's going to have to be enough.