My story:
My name is Lauren Leach-Steffens. I am a 54-year-old college professor, married, with five cats. That is not my story, just a convenient tag to hang it on.
What is my story? I am a wizard of information -- I stand in spinning clouds of words and pull them together, making meaning of them. The noun "mirror" is an object that reflects the person who looks in it; the verb "to mirror" is to show the reflection of the image. "Mirror" is a synonym of "reflect", yet is not quite the same, as it hints at the exact duplication of the original which may not be as obvious with "reflect:" In my mirror, I see a woman with sparse dark hair sticking up in curls, a narrow oval face, and an overly mobile mouth. I look over my glasses coquettishly, an invitation to indulge in play. In the mirror, I see seven-year-old me -- it's not a big leap from 54-year-old me.
Another story, just as true: I have always been an outsider -- the "weird" kid on the playground, teachers' pet, crybaby. These labels were all applicable, yet if they looked at the rest of my disordered childhood -- with problems anywhere from neglect and bipolar disorder and threats to sexual abuse -- they might have understood why I was a crybaby. Or perhaps not; small towns turn against those who are not like them. To this day I assume that people don't really want to get to know me.
Yet a third: I am the mirror. In being starkly honest about myself, you reflect upon your feelings about what I've said. You see your own humanity. You say "There but for the grace of God go I..." or you say "I've been there" and you say "I can't even identify with that" and sometimes "Doesn't she embarrass herself?" You move about the impressions like fragments of the mirror, and in it, you see yourself in contrast to me.
Who am I? This, and likely more.
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