I’ve dreamed of being a writer my entire life. But it has only been the past few years that I’ve put my dream of writing to the top of my priority list.

Being in a relationship and having children was the beginning of a life-changing journey for me...and not always for the better. I’ve endured more than my fair share of heartache to be where I am today, both physically and emotionally.

But no matter how tough my situation became I never lost my desire to write. To create. I would lie in bed at night after my children had gone to sleep and create worlds in my mind where I could escape the anguish that was my life.

I had let myself go until I was unrecognizable to my friends and family. No one knew what was really behind my depression. No one that is, except my children.

“Mommy, you have a fat butt,” my daughter said quite innocently one morning as we were getting dressed--me for work and her for daycare.

My first instinct was to reprimand her for “being ugly” as we call it down south. But I didn’t. Yes, her words stung, and I could feel the tears pooling in my eyes, but she was right. I did have a fat butt...huge in fact. And I had no one to blame but myself.

I felt totally disgusted by what I saw in the mirror. The ugly red marks that remained on my skin for hours after I removed my pantyhose every day repulsed me to no end.

There was a time when I blamed my weight gain on my children’s father. I blamed him for never having time to write...for never being allowed to let my creative side shine.

I constantly felt like a failure.

He cheated on me to the point of it being an obsession with him. I was always competing with other women--younger, thinner, and older--if they had a vagina they were fair game when it came to my children’s father.

I was lonely and petrified of being left alone to raise two small children on my own.

I ate for comfort, I ate for companionship, and I ate to fill the huge empty void that was left when he took my ability to write away from me.

It no longer seemed worth the effort to put pen to paper. The abuse hadn’t grown physical at that point, but there were many times that I wished he would just go ahead and hit me. At least the pain would only last for a few minutes. Words, on the other hand, continue to sting for days on end.

And then one day I found myself weighing 230lbs and three months pregnant. I waited to tell him until I thought that I was far enough along in the pregnancy that he couldn’t force me into doing anything that I would regret.

He never mentioned terminating the pregnancy. Instead he threw me down on the floor, putting his entire weight on my stomach. This so-called man was determined to make sure that I never carried another child he fathered to term.

His plan worked.

A week later I lost that child while I was home alone with my children. I watched as the tiny life disappeared down the toilet as I cried uncontrollably, helpless to stop it from happening.

I cried for the child I lost, a child that I would never see grow-up and have a family of his own. And I wept for the two innocent lives sobbing at my knee, both of them kneeling on the blood-splattered bathroom floor.

What was I doing to my children? What kind of mother puts her own babies through something so horrible and stays in the relationship? A woman like me, that’s who. A woman who isn’t strong enough, who lacks the self-esteem to step out of her comfort zone.

I was being verbally and physically abused on a daily basis now, but at least I wasn’t totally alone.

By this time I was scheduled to return to my physician for my six-week check-up. I had made several trips to the emergency room, positive I was having a heart attack. I would wake-up in the middle of the night unable to breathe, my heart beating wildly.

It was OB/GYN that finally gave me the wake-up call I so desperately needed. “You’re dying,” he told me. “And it isn’t your heart or your weight that’s killing you. It’s your spirit. If you do not leave this relationship now, it will kill you. Mark my word.”

I left his office that day more terrified that I’ve ever been in my life.

I knew he was right, but I was forty-two years old and scared out of my mind. I went home that afternoon and took a good hard look at my life.

That Saturday morning I packed our possessions and moved to a small town thirty miles away. The funny thing is, he never knew we were gone. He never came home that weekend.

Within four months I was down to a 150lbs and wearing a size ten. I was on cloud nine. My heart palpitations were non-existent. I was healthy--emotionally as well as physically.

My children flourished in their new stress-free environment. They played outside all summer, their arms and legs growing tan and strong under the warm summer sun...something they were never allowed to do when their father was in the home.

For the first time in many years my children and I are happy. And the best part is, I’m writing again. The words flow from my fingertips to the keyboard at lightening speed. Every character, every world that I created in my mind during that horrible time in my life has finally found a home.

To some people this may seem like a depressing story. But to me this is a story of hope. I want everyone who reads about my experience to realize that no matter how tough your life seems, you have the power to make your dreams come true. If you want it bad enough.

If you dream of becoming a writer, never give up.

Sure, I struggle on a daily basis with my decision. Being a single mom and a writer is never easy, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life.

This is where I belong.

I am a writer.