Who I Am

I look in the mirror of my own self-awareness. Staring back at me is someone that is finally accepting of the skin that she lives in. A person that is finally living the life that she’s yearned for or over 30 years. A woman that finally finds herself able to be open and honest about who she is.

But then I turn and I’m in one of those mirror mazes you find at the fun fair.

My reflection now shows my spouse, someone who has been married for 20 years, someone has come along for the journey with me in the last few years and who has been surprisingly supportive but who has changed, who has revealed things about themselves that I didn’t see before.

I want to find my way out of this maze but everywhere I turn I find myself trapped, controlled. Freedom eludes me, the mirrors restrict my chance to get away, to do all the things that I want. In the reflections I see people around me, as I move from mirror to mirror they follow me, despite my urges to them to find their own paths, despite the petty things they do; pulling me towards other mirrors that reflect their view of me; breathing on the mirrors to obscure the images presented in them.

Sometimes I escape them for a brief moment and glimpse images of what I could be, writer, photographer, dancer, teacher, who I am and who I have the potential to be. But then they catch up with me and these images fade and become harder to see, more difficult to grasp.

Sometimes the mirrors distort things, even draw the life out of me so that the images within them can; for a brief time; have a life of their own. It is these mirrors that I fear for they are the ones that are hardest to get past, the ones that require an extra effort, the ones that leave me wondering whether I’m the person looking into the mirror or the reflection looking out. I don’t believe I’m the reflection, I know what that feels like, so I must be the viewer.

I see a reflection of my son, a grinning, waving imp, encouraging me onwards towards the exit, for him I’ll complete this journey, no matter what the mirrors show me, I will escape this mirrored trap and be free.

The maze continues, mirror after mirror showing me different things. The heart of the maze is close I feel it, and once I’ve reached it then the journey out, the images I see in the mirrors, will be more accurate reflections of who I am and want to be.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.