Thursday, 19 June 2014


For those who believe in resurrection, death is inconsequential. It's not an ending, but rather a new beginning...a second chance. A reunion. But the very idea of resurrection is so seductive a concept, it's easy to forget that before you can rise from the dead, you have to spend a few days in hell. - The fantastic script-writer responsible for Emily Thorne's melancholic monologues at the beginning of every episode of Revenge.

Previously, on Sex in the C.T...break-ups, babies, save the dates and unholy reunions. Who needs television when life presents its own dramatic doses of tragedies, romantic comedies and fantasies every day? It's amazing how much drama can ensue in just two short months, and while the time away was absolutely necessary to reflect on life-changing events, I have truly missed sharing my antics, and the trials and tribulations of the relentless characters that I am so blessed to have in my life. Consider this my resurrection back into the blog world, an open letter to the people that have inspired me, and the readers and followers that have kept my passion very much alive. But first things first. What ever happened to Kelly and Joe?   

Before my untimely sabbatical from the blogospheric universe, my relationship with Aiden had suffered what the French call la petit mort. I had finally terminated our four year relationship after months of agonising indecisiveness and speculation. What was probably one of the most unstable periods of my life had not only affected my ability to write but also my ability to function as a normal human being. Hurricane Katrina had nothing on the vortex of doom I had become during those tempestuous days that followed the aftermath of our break up. I found myself alone for the first time in four years without a hope or a shred of light to bring me out of the darkness.

Flashback to that fateful Tuesday morning in April when I had reason to believe that Aiden might be having another affair. With whom and how was unknown but I had let down my intuition once before and vowed to never make that same mistake again. Fueled by my own paranoia and insecurities of the past, I took his keys and kicked him out. I fell apart in the most dramatic sense as I found myself packing four lonely boxes and black bags full of his belongings. Clothes, gifts, photographs. The tears came down like waterfalls and I suddenly found myself puffing on old faithful, a Dunhill Light or twenty after my seven month hiatus. How very disappointing.

Throughout my possession of getting rid of his possessions, I found a box lying deep within the shadows of J.K Rowling hardbacks and contemporary pop-star autobiographies. A box I had somehow completely forgotten about. It's something we hoarders like to call a "memory box", a shoebox of tokens and momento's that we collect and accumulate throughout the course of one relationship. I'd destroyed many a box like this one including its respective contents with great ease but this one hit me like a ton of dicks. As I opened the floodgates of my romantic past, I came across the love notes he'd leave me to find in the oddest of places, the first red rose which was now as black as my heart, the customized P.S. I Love You wrapper, and who could forget those tiny little notes he'd written, hidden and re-wrapped inside a box of my favorite favorites. Shattered doesn't even begin to cover the way I felt in that moment.

I didn't need this resurgence of feelings. Not now. Not ever. My mind was made up, but just like Pandora's box of horrors, I suddenly found myself questioning my own questions and actions. Had I perhaps been a touch dramatic? Was I maybe, just maybe, overreacting and misjudging the situation? Was this affair all in my head? The glass of single malt whiskey hidden in the bottom drawer was one thing but what proof did I have of his infidelity?

The following Friday, after three torturous nights of not feeling Aiden's body beside me, I decided to meet up with him so that we could "talk things through" and address the issue at hand. It was like seeing a ghost. A sad, angry, disappointed ghost. I promised myself from the beginning that we would never be one of those tedious couples. You know, those insidious love-fools that make up and break up more often than the Sugababes. There's a logical reason why people break up in the first place. Lack of communication and resolution.

That's when I realised that neither Aiden nor I had really worked on our relationship in a long time. We'd somehow become complacent, co-existing in a vicious cycle where taking one step forward only meant taking two very huge steps back. Sure the past four days had been hell on earth but wasn't the state of our relationship even more infernal? Would getting back together only mean jumping into a different kind of fire or were we finally on our way to heaven?     

It would be a total cliche to say that "we kissed and made up on the spot". Calm down. This isn't an after-school special. We did kiss and yes, we even had amazing make-up sex (which by the way is ten times better than break-up sex), but we're both a long, long way from happy. Just like the phoenix rises out of the ashes, real love is baby bird that needs a strong pair of wings before it can truly soar. Perhaps getting back together is a huge mistake and maybe we're falling into the common trap of relationship co-dependency, but when you've gone through hell and back with someone, and realise that life would suck without them, what's one more shot at the end of the day?  

When it comes to the resurrection of one's relationship, do we need to die a tragic death before we become immortal?  

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