Exhausted

Lately, I’ve been choking on emotions I can’t even name anymore—happy, sad, angry, confused, exhausted, tired, and mostly… done.
Just done with everything and everyone.

Last night, after a video call with my drop-dead gorgeous fiancé—the one person who still makes this chaos feel a little less cruel—I pressed my face into my bolster and cried until I couldn’t breathe.

Not because I don’t trust him. I do.
But because I’m so goddamn tired of explaining pain that doesn’t have words.
So I let the tears soak into the fabric instead, pretending it was him, holding me while the world burned quietly around us.

He’d fix it all if he could, I know that.
But this time, I needed to drown in my own silence.
No comfort. No pity. Just the noise inside my head eating me alive.

People say I talk to myself a lot lately. Maybe I do.
Maybe it’s the only conversation I can control anymore.
They can call me weird, or wacko, or unstable—whatever makes them sleep better at night.

I’m not hurting anyone.
But I’m bleeding quietly inside, and no one seems to notice.

All I need right now is him—and a hug strong enough to keep me from falling apart.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep carrying everyone else’s weight while mine keeps crushing me.
I’m trying to be the strong one, the reliable one, the one who holds it all together.

But tell me—
who the hell is holding me?

Where does my sanity go when everyone keeps taking their piece of me?

I just need a moment to breathe.
To scream.
To fall apart without guilt.

Just one moment of peace.

Hufft.

Can't I just take some rest, Please ?

أَسْتَغْفِرُ اللّٰهَ‎

I swear I’m this close to losing my sanity. 

This whole thing — this endless circus of problems — just won’t stop.

Every damn day it’s something new. Another fire to put out. Another mess to clean up. Another crisis that lands in my lap simply because I’m “the eldest” and “the responsible one.”

Do any of them even realize I’m human?

That I have a pulse, a mind, a breaking point?

Why can’t they just let me breathe for a moment? 

Just one moment.

I know my role. I know my responsibilities. I know people count on me.
But “overwhelmed” doesn’t even come close to what I’m feeling right now.

It’s beyond overwhelmed — it’s drowning in a storm while people hand you more buckets of water.

I’ve been trying to rebuild my life from scratch, to claw back some piece of myself, but how do you focus when every single day a new “challenge” crashes through your door?

It’s like the universe waits for me to exhale just so it can shove another test in my face.

Every time I think, “Okay, one crisis down, now I can finally focus on me…”

Oh boy. I was so damn wrong.

Another wave comes. Another demand. Another burden that isn’t even mine to carry but somehow ends up strapped to my back.

It’s a vicious cycle, a treadmill from hell that I can’t seem to step off.

And while everyone claps for my strength, no one asks if I’m okay.

No one sees how thin I’m stretched. How my sanity is slipping through my fingers.

I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m hollow.

And all I want — all I’m begging for — is rest.

Just one day where I’m not the problem-solver, the caretaker, the “strong one.”

Can’t I just stop? 

Can’t I just sit down without the world collapsing?

Please. Just let me breathe.

When My mind becomes The Enemy

After the unnecessary drama with Mom on Wednesday (25 August 2021), I started to spiral. By Thursday night (26 August 2021), my brain decided to stir the pot and serve me a fresh plate of insecurity on a silver platter.

I asked him—my kind, drop-dead gorgeous fiancé—whether he’s ever thought anything negative about me.

He looked confused but didn’t press.

He knows me well enough to wait for the storm to pass before asking questions.

It got awkward—because of me.

So I lied.

Told him I wanted to sleep early.
Truth is, I stayed up until 3 a.m., overthinking myself into a corner.

Lately, I’ve been haunted by this thought I can’t seem to shake:
What if he thinks I’m only with him for money?

It’s not true—God knows it’s not.
I love him. Deeply. Sincerely.
But my brain has been on overdrive lately, setting fire to bridges I haven’t even crossed.

I can feel myself sabotaging something good—the one thing in my life that actually works—and I’m slowly poisoning it with my own fears.

Nendrong, my voice of reason, talked me off the ledge.

She told me, “He’s not thinking that. He’s sincere, and you know it. This is your insecurity talking.”

And she’s right.

He’s always shown up for me, no questions asked.
He once said, “Leave your problems to the world. I am your world.”
And I believed him.
I still do.

But my demons are loud, and lately, they’ve been screaming.

Maybe it’s the demotion.

Maybe it’s Mom.

Maybe it’s the years of trying to hold everything together while I fall apart in silence.

Divorced. Almost 40. No kids. Parents divorced. Demoted. Still stuck in a job that doesn’t value me.

It’s a messy resume of life, and the only solid thing I have is my relationship.

And yet… I doubt that too.

What if one day he wakes up and realizes I’m not the one?

What if I’m just not enough?

Nendrong snapped me out of it again.

“Don’t ruin your happiness with negativity,” she said.

“You got lucky in love—that’s rare. Be grateful. Some of us would trade everything for a relationship like yours.”

She’s right.

I need to stop playing victim in a life that’s still writing its story.

So today, I’m writing this down to remind myself: I need a distraction.

Not to forget—but to refocus.

To take care of my mind before it ruins something beautiful.

Because right now?

My relationship is the only thing keeping me sane.

And I’ll be damned if I let my own thoughts take that away from me.

Officially got Demoted

8 June 2021 — mark it in blood, the day they thought they could break me.

Congratulations to me — I’ve officially been demoted. 🎉

A standing ovation, please, for corporate betrayal wrapped in a passive-aggressive smile.

I saw it coming — the slow burn, the whisper behind closed doors, the sugar-coated meetings.

But when Tante Suri invited me for a little “chat,”

I knew the storm had landed.

She explained my “new role” with the kind of rehearsed sympathy you'd expect from a villain in a budget soap opera.

"And there will be a salary adjustment," she said, like it was a weather update.

I didn't flinch. I didn’t cry. I didn’t give her the satisfaction.

I wore my poker face like war paint,

Took the damn letter like it was a gold medal in a game I never signed up for.

I didn’t ask about the money. Why bother?

They’d already taken the title — might as well snatch my dignity too, right?

But listen up:

I’ve been through hell hotter than this.

I’ve bled, broken, rebuilt — and I’m still here.

So here’s to you, corporate chaos.

Here’s to the ladder that turns into a snake the second you get too high.

Here’s to the silent punishment of being too much for their comfort.

But most of all — here’s to me.

I may be down. But I am not destroyed.

This isn’t defeat. This is a plot twist.

So bring it. Bring every ounce of disrespect, every stupid restructure, every empty “we appreciate you.”

I’ll turn it into firewood.

Fuel for the blaze I’ll use to forge something better.

Because it’s ALRIGHT, BAWEL PENDIAM. YOU. CAN. DO. THIS.

Let them watch while you rise.

Let them choke on the ashes of everything they tried to bury.

And this “nightmare?”

Please. I’ve survived demons.

This is just corporate cosplay.

Divide et impera ala Tante Suri

"Divide et impera" — Latin for divide and conquer.

A brilliant strategy in warfare, yes. But also, apparently, a hobby for Tante Suri.

Lately, it feels like she’s been running her own private campaign — not on a battlefield, but in my personal life. Subtle, manipulative, and disturbingly effective at times.

The saga began innocently enough, maybe three or four months ago, when Om Suri, out of nowhere, suggested setting me up with a teacher. His reasoning? We’re the same age and both single. How profoundly insightful.

A clumsy matchmaking attempt, harmless on the surface.

Then came Mr. Traveller. The day I told Tante Suri about him, her face was a theater of emotions — shock first, then excitement, maybe even genuine happiness. But not for long.

The moment she learned more about him — his nationality, his culture, his difference — the enthusiasm curdled into skepticism.

And then, came the words. The kind that sound like concern but drip with something colder.

“Kamu berani banget sih sama orang luar?”

("You're so brave to be with a foreigner.")

Followed by the absurd parenthesis: (He eats normal food, right?)

As if his culinary choices determined his worth.

“Udah mending sama orang Indonesia.”

("It’s better to be with an Indonesian.")

Conveniently forgetting that I’ve been there. Done that. Survived that disaster.

“Berkaca dari pengalaman sebelumnya, kamu udah pernah gagal.”

("Looking at your past, you’ve already failed.")

A brutal reminder of pain I never asked to relive.

“Selidikin dulu latar belakangnya, jangan keburu-buru.”

("Investigate his background first, don’t rush.")

Reasonable advice — on the surface. But was it concern… or a subtle attempt to plant doubt?

“Pikirin lagi deh, kita maunya happy ending. Iya kalau happy ending, kalau nggak…”

("Think it over. We want a happy ending. Sure, if it ends well, but if not…")

And all I could think was — Astagfirullah. Is it really that hard to just say “Insha Allah, everything will be alright”?

“Sambil cari-cari yang lain, jangan cuma fokus sama yang ini.”

("Keep looking, don’t just focus on him.")

At that point, I wanted to scream: I’m the one getting married, not you.

When those direct attacks didn’t work, she switched tactics. 

The new approach? Slower, quieter, more insidious. 

A few words here, a raised eyebrow there. 

Just enough to stir unease.

And you’re right — it is sneaky.

It’s divide and conquer, Tante Suri-style.

Honestly? I’m speechless too.

Honestly, I don't even know what "US" mean anymore

It’s strange how silence can scream louder than words.

It all started again on March 12, 2021, when he suddenly texted me on WhatsApp asking if I was still saying no to his request.

After 46 days of nothing—no calls, no messages, not even a ghost of a “how are you?”—he decided to appear like nothing ever happened. Just dropped his question like a stone into my chest, pretending the water hadn’t already drowned me.

I didn’t reply.

Because what was I supposed to say? “Hey, thanks for abandoning me for a month and a half, but sure, let’s pick up where we left off”?
No.

At that point, I thought we were done. Finished. He’d walked away because our visions didn’t align—whatever that meant. I told myself to move on, but the truth? I never stopped checking my phone, hoping for something that never came. Until it did.

But not in the way I wanted.

That first text? I ignored it for a week. Because I didn’t want to look desperate. Because I didn’t want to reopen a wound that was just starting to scar. Because even though I still loved him, I wasn’t going to crawl. HELL. NO.

Then on March 21, he called. I ignored it. Then he texted my other number. Ignored that too.

Two days later, March 23, he tried again on Google Duo. Not once. Three times.
Same night. Same persistence.
I remember staring at my phone, watching it buzz, my heart doing that stupid thing where it hopes even when it shouldn’t.

And then I answered.

That night, I said everything I’d been swallowing for 46 days.
I told him how cruel it felt when he ended it with “I wish you the very best and good luck.”
Like I was some stranger he’d met at an airport, not someone who knew his soul.

I told him how I didn’t pick up before because I was done talking to people who leave without explanation.

He apologized. Said he didn’t know how much it hurt me. Said he wanted to fix things.

I didn’t believe him right away. I wanted to, but I didn’t trust myself anymore.

And yet… since March 23, something shifted. He’s been more patient, more thoughtful, more… aware. Maybe guilt changes people. Maybe love does. Maybe both.

We’re back to talking every day. Back to the old rhythm, though it feels like the song changed.

And now, we’re talking about marriage.

Insha Allah, we’ll get there.
If my heart doesn’t self-destruct first.

Sometimes, when I look at him on video call, I still feel that tiny ache—the ghost of what he made me feel when he left.

I smile anyway. Pretend it’s gone.

Because maybe that’s what love is—choosing to rebuild the same house that once burned you down, praying it doesn’t collapse again.

إِنْ شَاءَ ٱللَّٰهُ

Time will heal wounds ???

That tired old adage — “Time will heal all wounds.”

Please.

It whispers a lie as sweet as rust on a blade.

We all carry our own tapestry of scars, don’t we?

Etched from childhood’s cruel games, adolescent heartbreaks that once felt like apocalypse,
families splintered, bonds severed so brutally you still hear the echo of the snap.

Each scar — a masterpiece of suffering, painted in shades only the soul can see.

But forget their wounds.

Let’s talk about mine.

My collection is… substantial.

And right now, the spotlight burns on the crimson stain left by love.

Five years have crawled by since divorce sliced my world clean in two.

I had almost convinced myself the phantom pain had dulled — that the landscape had finally flattened into peace.

Almost.

Then he arrived —

a comet that streaked across my sky, beautiful, destructive, fleeting.

And now the old gashes pulse again, a symphony of old griefs conducted by one fresh wound.

“Time heals all wounds”?

A charming myth for the hopeful.

My scars don’t fade — they hum.

They whisper of wars fought and lost, of nights where I stitched myself back together using thread made of stubbornness and denial.

They sting with defiance against the bland cruelty of healing.

So no — I don’t believe time heals.

It conceals.

It piles dust over the hurt until something — a name, a scent, a voice — shakes the ground,
and suddenly, everything you thought was gone rises again, breathing, bleeding, remembering.

Maybe time isn’t a doctor.

Maybe it’s just a grave digger,

and grief — my most loyal ghost.

What do you think?