Everything Everywhere At All Once

Here I am, writing all the sadness and traumatic moments in my life to the world HAHAHA!

I never intended to write something like this before. What’s the trigger? My client’s post.

My client works as a lawyer for a big corporation. She has everything a woman can dream of: Money. Beauty. Family. Anything that I don’t have (or never had?). But the trigger is not her life, it’s her post. She posted an event with her best friends.

I have a big jealousy toward every woman in this world who can hang out, party, or go on a girls’ trip whenever they want.
I can’t even go to my best friend’s wedding because it’s in another city. Why? Okay, let me explain.

So, let’s dive deep into Linda’s life and her traumatic events. Let’s go!

The Cage

I am counting the days to my birthday next month. Never in my life have I said some bullshit like, “Ah, good old days.” Because it never happened!

My childhood was the worst time of my life. All I did was stress out, try to die, or hold a grudge.

My parents rarely let me out of the house. Almost 24 hours of my life were spent inside, unless I went to school. They robbed my childhood, my freedom, and my expression.

They controlled what I ate, what I wore, who I talked to, and who I befriended. All I did was obey them.

I remember when my family held a big event in our house. All my distant relatives came. I wasn’t allowed to talk. So I just sat there, like a doll.
I remember how my mom stared at me angrily, like I was the most stupid person in the world. Every time I said something (because family members spoke to me), she looked pissed off.
So I surrendered, closed my mouth, and stared at the floor.

People misunderstood and praised me as a good girl, an obedient child. I became the favorite granddaughter on both sides of the family. The irony…

I couldn’t even choose or wear something I liked because she said my style was plebeian. She hated everything I did or said. For almost 20 years, my clothes weren’t my style—they were just things I had to wear.

If I resisted, I wouldn’t be allowed to go out. She would make a scene, scream, or… I’ll leave it here. You can imagine freely what I had to endure.

I lived like a bird in a cage.

I know… some of you will say, “Oh, look, an ungrateful child! You must be grateful because you have parents! You eat well, go to school, have your own room, your closet full of clothes, etc. How disappointing you are as a daughter!”

Have you ever been kicked so hard that your skin turned blue, and your legs went limp for 3 days—just because you didn’t have a high-paying job?
Have you ever been forced to go home from the hospital because your parents were tired of you, their sick child? This happened when I still had a fiancé. My ex-fiancé was the one who took care of me at the hospital.
Even when I got Covid, they didn’t let me get treated — they just locked me up for almost a month.

Or have you ever been sexually assaulted, but your parents blamed you because they were 100% sure it was your fault? But all you did was sleep, as a child, in your pajamas… and you were assaulted by a family member?

Nah, don’t you ever tell me how to be grateful. They are the ungrateful ones. God entrusted them with children, and they betrayed it by acting devilishly.

Ex-fiancé

From now on, I will call him the man. The world knows how deeply I loved him in the past. But as time went by, my love faded away. It became bitter and chaotic.

Although he is married now, and I have fallen in love with my dearest angel—I mean, another person—I still feel hurt by him. Because he made me lose my self-respect. He made me beg.

He crushed my hope. There was no dignity left in my soul. I begged, begged, and begged until my wet eyes dried out from overtime.

I am certain the man wasn’t ready to marry me—that’s why he treated me that way. It felt like one-sided love. But the weird part is… he did love me back. He just didn’t know how to treat me properly.

I am deeply traumatized. I acknowledge him as a good man. Maybe… we just weren’t meant to be together.

Our relationship ended on good terms, and we even signed a document about it. Yes, we wrote an agreement letter about our relationship, because at that time we had been planning our marriage (which would have happened in 5 months).

I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m putting all the blame on him. I know I had my wrongs too, and that doesn’t make me any better.

No, I don’t love him anymore. Yes, I love another person now. I’m writing this as a coping mechanism—to let out what’s in my heart. Not because I haven’t moved on.

Labour

After college, I thought life would finally give me a break. But no. Finding a job was another nightmare.

In my first year, I worked double jobs. First, a teaching job. Second, as a freelance writer.
Guess what? From teaching, I got sexual harassment.

From writing? Clients disappeared without paying. Free labor, no money.

And as if that wasn’t enough, outside the office, someone spread lies about me. They posted my photo online and accused me of being an open BO. Imagine that.

Then I tried working as a g*v*rnment contract worker. I thought, finally, some stability. But after only 5 days, they accused me of stealing a single photocopied sheet of paper. Just one sheet. They fired me instantly. 

The salary? It came two months later. And the job itself? Every day, from 7 AM until 7 PM. My body was tired, my mind was crushed, and my soul felt worthless.

By then, I asked myself: what’s the point of trying? Why does every door slam in my face? Why is the world so eager to humiliate me?

In the second and third years, I went back to freelancing. Scraping by. Living day by day. My hope was shrinking, my chest was heavy every morning. Life felt like a punishment I didn’t deserve.

Until finally, at the end of 2022, I got the job I have now. A full-time job as a copywriter. A proper office job with a monthly salary. Most of the time, it’s WFH, so I don’t have to drag myself into Jakarta every day. That’s one blessing.

But one job isn’t enough. So I freelance too. Sometimes I get clients, sometimes I teach. Just enough to add to my monthly income.

Do I wish I could take more jobs? Yes. Do I actually take them? No. Because my mental health doesn’t let me. I can’t push myself into endless hustle culture. If I do, I collapse.

So I take only what I can handle. Just enough. Not too much, not too little. This has been my rhythm since 2022—balancing survival with sanity.

So yeah. That’s me. That’s my life. Everything everywhere all at once. A mess that I never asked for, but one I have to live with anyway.