I don't want my life to be magazine perfect, I want my life to be lived in

When I think about the pain I've endured in this life, I think of it as though it is a piece of furniture. I want my life to be like the big wooden pieces in my grandparents' houses. The ones that are beautiful. They are constantly oiled and loved. The wood shines, and the stain still fills the room with color. However, they have been through many moves, as well as children, and grandchildren. This has created scrapes and scratches, and the occasional gouge in wood. This gives it character. It has been used, and isn't that the sign of love? No one really loves something that just sits on a shelf.

A friend of mine has a prominent scar on her stomach from a surgery. A few weeks ago, she was tanning and some of the "magazine" type girls at the pool took note. They started talking about the scars they have on their bodies, and how they hate them. That is so appalling to me. My body, for one, is completely covered in scars. Some of the scars came from good experiences, and some from bad. Regardless, they are my scars. The ones from good experiences remind me of time spent with people I love, or activities I have loved. The ones from bad experiences remind me that I have passed several tests in my life. They are a constant reminder of the things I have endured, as well as proof that I can survive my fair share of experiences, and still come out singing and laughing. I also wonder if anyone mentioned to these girls that most tattoos are like a scar. Scars we choose to get.

Not all scars are physical, don't get me wrong. And each test we are given is different than any surrounding us. I know a girl who has suffered no more heartache than losing a grandparent or pet, having to work a part time job for spending money, having a younger brother who brings her family embarrassment, or losing a boyfriend. I constantly have to remind myself that this is as bad as she has experienced. She knows about my trials, but as she did not experience these herself, or even know of them as they were occurring, they are no worse to her than the stories of raped women, battered children, and all other horrors of which we are globally aware. [Note: This is not to say she doesn't feel empathy for these woes, but that they are not personal, and thus don't seem to effect her as deeply.]

The point is, my experiences are valuable to me because they are just that, mine. They have made me who I am now. They have accentuated features of my personality I love. They have also created some that I almost loathe. In ways, they have made me more jaded, and more cynical than I would like to be. However, I also think they have made me more compassionate and understanding.

And, here we reach my flaws. I can talk myself into liking or hating anything, to the point that I become utterly confused. When typing the part about being understanding and compassionate, I thought about using it in moderation. That thin line that lies where being aware of the reasons for some one's behavior stops, and letting yourself become used and walked on starts. Oh, moderation, how you tease me. This is one thing I've never been good at my entire life, moderation. I chalk it up to poor impulse control. Any way, it somehow gets the best of me in the end. That little demon that leads me into the path of seeming hypocrisy that is no more than basic contradiction.

Which all leads me back to my mother [from whom I am truly an extension]. I believe I reference it in a profile somewhere as another one of my contradictory titles, but I will never forget the insight she gave me on my life. One night, my freshman year of college, my mother told me that a therapist had once referred to her as an Iron Butterfly. That night, she told me that she thought the term applied to my life a thousand times over [and those were easier years].

I was going to explain what the concept actually means to my mother and me, and I looked on the Internet. Dictionary.com defines it as some sort of options strategy. That's not right, so I thought Wikipedia might offer some insight, though it only provided information on a hard rock and psychedelic band. So, I do get to define it myself, after all.

Iron Butterfly is meant in the most literal terms. Butterflies are incredibly fragile beings that, while able to endure, are in constant danger. Iron is very heavy and durable metal. My mother told me that while I am fragile, and often wounded, I will always survive. I am beautiful and sensitive, yet incredibly, and often surprisingly, strong.

I love this analogy. I think it's one of the most suiting things said to me, and it is no wonder that it was said by my mother. I am that butterfly, though I believe that I am lined with Iron. No one can see it, and I still get those scrapes and gouges, but I'm pretty sure that I can handle any situation. I love that.

And, yet again, I'm not picture perfect. No one wants to see an iron butterfly in a beautiful scenic shot on the cover of a magazine. They want to see something that is all show, and often times airbrushed and perfected to the point of no longer being real. I am not that, and I am thankful. I think most of those who desire picture-perfect lives can never attain them, and are always left with that reminder. They are also often trying so hard, that they create this facade, which can become incredibly lonely. And, what of those that do reach this goal? How depressing is it to have a life of beauty without substance? I guess it's just all in your priorities.

I know that I am incredibly happy to have a life full of substance and joy...

...not to mention the ability to look fabulous while living it.