A few points spring to mind:

• The first death that affected me deeply was an uncle. I was 5 years old.

• The second death that affected me deeply was my father’s. I was 6 years old.

• For weeks after my Dad’s death I carried around a list I’d written of facts about my Dad. My Grandma thought it was morbid and unhelpful so she got rid of it. I just wrote another.

• When I was 8 years old, I saw a funeral on the tv, on the 6 o’clock news. I asked my Grandmother, “Who’s funeral is that? Why are they so important?” Grandma told me what she knew about him. That was in August, 1977. For Christmas that year, Grandma bought me my first Elvis tapes and so began the most enduring love affair of my life. Yes, it stemmed from a funeral.

• I’ve lived with Depression since childhood, even though we didn’t know it then, back then they just called me emotional and dramatic. But, I’ve never been actively suicidal. I’ve been passively suicidal, sure, but never actively. This was a huge relief to me and yet in other ways, a disappointment. Was I so defective that I couldn’t even get Depression right?

• When I was 19, my Grandmother died. She was a huge, and yet not always pleasant, influence in my life. Her death brought up so many conflicting emotions, that I’m still trying to understand.

• When I was 49, I had a heart attack. I probably should have taken this a bit more seriously than I did at the time, but honestly, I felt like I was just a late bloomer, my Dad had his first heart attack when he was 28.

• I’m 56 now and in the last three years I’ve lost my mum and two aunts that I was close to. All the strong women that I was raised by are gone.

There were other deaths that impacted me too of course: friends, exes, suicides, murders, accidents, but there’s only so much time I can spend writing this so I’ll stop at this point.

No, wait, I’ll mention another couple of things that seem relevant:

• I was once told by a clairvoyant that when I was little, the angels came to tell me (in a way that I might understand at that time) that my dad was going to die soon. It was supposed to make it easier for me when it happened. It didn’t.

• Shortly after Dad died, I heard a story on the radio that said someone had proven that there was, in fact, life after death. I told my four year old brother that this meant dad was coming back but he shouldn’t tell mum because it would ruin the surprise. He cracked and my poor mum had to explain to us, again, that death was final.

• A few years ago, I had an Akashic Reading done and I was told that I had 168 previous lives. A lot of them were short. I’d dive in, figure out what I needed to learn, and then get out, quick. So, a lot of early deaths.

Is there any wonder that I have a thing for vampires?

Why am I telling you all this?

Because for years, I’ve been waiting to die. As my physical condition has worsened with age and weight gain, and as my Depression has gotten more severe (and yet also more stable) as menopause hit, I’ve just been waiting to die. And I’m only just now realizing that.

I’ve always said that I’m not afraid to die And that’s true. I have some very firm beliefs that make death seem more than palatable to me. And there’s a lot to be said for familiarity, I guess.

I am a little concerned about how I’m going to die though, but that’s a whole other blog post.

To get back to my point. A few things have happened recently that have made me realize that I’ve been using my belief that I was always going to die young as an excuse to not do anything major with my life. Why start something if you’re only going to have your time cut short and not be able to finish it?

For most of my life, I was angry at my Dad for dying young and leaving me. He was 28 when he had his first heart attack and 35 when he had his second, the one that killed him. I knew he was never going to live to a ripe old age but I was sure that if he hadn’t believed he was going to die young after his first heart attack, we would have had a few more years with him.

A recent conversation with Dad through a medium (obviously) taught me that this wasn’t true at all. The belief I’d carried for most of my life, and the anger, was absolute bullshit. What a waste of time and energy.

In NZ, we have finally been given access to GLP-1’s. (No. Do not come at me with your opinions of cheating or whatever. I don’t care.) This has meant that I’m losing weight physically and my brain is also healing, and on top of that, the medication I’m taking also helps with heart conditions, over and above the weight loss.

Both of these things tell me that I might not die young after all.

(And yes, you youngsters, 56 is still dying young).

What an eye-opener. I could feasibly have another 20, even 30, years to fill in.

What the fuck am I going to do with all that time?

I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.

I’m going to write my books and teach the next generation that you can build an exciting life at any stage, with any condition, with any passion. I’m going to teach the world that “weird” is wonderful and should be treated with respect and joy.

How am I going to teach them?

Role modelling, my friend.

This is my life now. I write. I call it fiction but really it’s my truth. The writing of it empowers me, enlivens me, and gives me a purpose, a reason to get out of bed on the days when it’s really hard to find one.

I’m having conversations with people about what it means to be alive. Truly alive. Even when the chemicals in your brain and the joints in your body are telling you that life is only pain.

Shit. I’m making myself cry now, as I’m writing this.

Okay. Enough. I’m sure you get my point:

Death may often feel like your only friend but I promise you, death’s got all the time in the world. He can wait.

If I’m wrong, and you haven’t got the point? Comment and we’ll have one of those conversations I mentioned above.