Am I a Writer?

  Today I have decided to accept the fact that I am wallowing, and go with it. For some time now, my income has been ... not an income. I made a choice almost a year ago to follow my dream as an author and work with what I have. For a while it was okay, but for the last several months, things have been really rough.
  As I sat today looking at new swimsuits on line, it occurred to me that even if I saved up two weeks salary, I still couldn't order one. For those of you who don't know me, finding a swimsuit top to fit is difficult at the very least. Small mid-drift, not so small chest, makes for a nearly impossible find. And when you do, it's always an arm and a leg, maybe even your first born child, in the pricing category.
  Anyway, I started reflecting on my life and my choices. I've always felt that I was going to do something out of the realm of ordinary. As if there was a plan and I was one of the players that actually played. I've always loved writing and when my first story got published, I figured this was it. This was the thing I was supposed to do. The way I make my mark on the world. Yes, I am a mother of two beautiful daughters, but it's not fair to give them the burden of being my end all. They have their greatness to go and achieve and they don't need to worry about being mine. Although, they truly are. So back to writing. I figured being an author was my achievement. The thing I'm supposed to do with my life. But, today I've realized that I can't keep living my life like this. The lack of independence is wearing me down and making me feel like a problem to everyone around me.
  I've had the help of some very close friends and family. They've banded together to make me realize my dream and they believe in me, which causes great guilt in itself. How can these people keep telling me it's going to be all right, while all along struggling with their own day to day? Their strength and love has been overwhelming. But it's time for me to stop and realize that I can't keep this charade up any longer. I need to  realize that it may never happen. And that maybe my dream of being more, is really just a want. I was always happy and content being a mom, a wife, a sister, a daughter. Maybe that's who I really am and not a writer. Maybe I'm not supposed to write twenty books that make the best seller list or become someones favorite movie trilogy. Maybe I'm just little Vicki-Ann Bush, average Joe. And maybe it's time to get a job that completely supports me and my world and then maybe, just maybe I will start to feel whole again. Self sufficient, self worth, self everything. Is this what I want? No .... I want to be an author who can buy a bathing suit when she needs to. But today, and maybe only for today, I believe the universe has a very different plan for me.