Sometimes, it just feels like I live with a monster. A monster called perfectionism

"I

t’s not straight!” I bark, as Malka and Shiri hold up the brightly-colored poster, trying valiantly to pin it to the door. “Nope, still no good,” I snap, as they move it again, exchanging small looks. They try this way and that, but it’s still just not quite there. I sigh and march over. “Here, let me do it.” Within two minutes, the Bnos poster is up perfectly, even if my friends are both sulking. Oh, well.

I’m used to having to do things myself. People talk about delegating, but I’ve learned the hard way: If you want something done properly, do it yourself. And I like things done properly.

I also like doing well. Really well. Which explains why I come home in a rotten mood on the day I get an 87 on my Geography test, when I was expecting a 95, at least.

“What’s up, Raizy, are you okay?” my mother asks as I walk in the door, slamming it for good measure. “Bad day,” I mutter, then go up to my room. Everything looks just the way it did when I left this morning. Duvet carefully turned back, throw pillows scattered just so, laundry neatly folded and knickknacks perfectly arranged. This is me, I think, then throw myself onto the bed and look angrily at the ceiling. Meanwhile, my brain plays like a broken record, saying: only an 87, only an 87, only an 87…

Other people don’t get this at all, I’ve learned. They laugh at me when I say I wanted a higher mark. They prod me playfully and say things like, “Oooh, Perfect Raizy wants to get 100!” They think it’s a joke, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. Sometimes, it just feels like I live with a monster. A monster called perfectionism.