My Mr. Hyde
by Elizabeth Moss

I was standing at the door of my dad’s study. We were just talking. "You have this obsessive-compulsive part of your personality," he said. "It makes you feel like you have to do everything perfectly. You aren’t satisfied with yourself unless you do something just right."

I thought about it. Maybe I am obsessive-compulsive. Who knows? All I know is that sometimes I have this urge to be absolutely perfect. It’s an annoying "Mr. Hyde"-like part of me. I have to be the perfect student, the perfect sister, the perfect pianist, the perfect everything.

A lot of times, I succeed. I let Mr. Hyde take over. I make it seem like I’m flawless. As a result, lots of people think that they can get lots of things from me.

They ask me for help in Integrated Science and math.

They ask me to help my little brother with his piano lesson.

They ask me to baby-sit all summer for their three bratty kids who eat pure sugar for breakfast and run rampant around the house for four hours while I chase after them.

And I do it all. I like doing most of it. I’ll gladly help someone with homework, or take a babysitting job two days out of every week. That’s me: a model citizen.

My motivation is a little obsessive-compulsive voice in my head. It says, "You have to be perfect. All your friends and family are counting on you. If you’re not perfect, everyone will freak out and start to actually think and do things for themselves instead of asking you for all the answers. You wouldn’t want that, would you?"

**********

Sometimes I think it would be nice to take a break for a while. Be average for a change. Make a C on a paper and have it be OK. Slip and let out a curse and have nobody turn their head. Every time I try, though, my obsessive-compulsive side foils my plans.

My class had an Integrated Science test once. No one understood the material. The people in my class filed into the silent room with terrified looks on their faces.

I didn’t know how to work some of the problems. Inwardly I chided myself. How could I not know the answers? I always knew the answers! It almost killed me, but I finally just guessed on some of the problems.

When I handed in my test, I figured I had probably made a C or a D. Most of me was a good bit upset, especially the obsessive-compulsive part. But the average part felt great! Maybe I would fail the test! Then I could finally vanquish this weird psycho mentality that makes me a perfect student all the time! There’s no way I could expect myself to be the best at everything since I failed my Integrated Science test, right?

I made a 92.

Sometimes, even when I’m clueless my perfectionist side still wins out.

**********

This essay has to be perfect. It has to be another "A" added to my already perfect résumé. It has to be published on the Internet with all the other good essays. I have to put the right paragraphs and ideas in the right places. That’s all that matters to my Mr. Hyde. He doesn’t care about writing for the sheer pleasure of writing or about getting better as a writer. For that part of me, it’s all about perfection.

**********

I sat in my Pre-Calculus class, a highly confused look on my face. I had missed class the day before, and apparently my class had learned something new. On the overhead projector there were hundreds of triangles and circles with squiggly lines and curves radiating out from the figures. It all looked familiar, but Mr. Nollenberger was manipulating the numbers in ways I didn’t think were possible. He turned to me and saw the look on my face.

"Elizabeth, you getting all this?" he asked me.

"No, not really," I said.

"That’s funny. You usually understand it better than anyone."

He shrugged and went back to teaching the other kids who actually knew what was going on.

Meanwhile, I was split in two.

On one side, I knew that others in the class didn’t understand either, so it didn’t make sense to be mad at myself. I could see my same confused look on the faces of other students. They had their eyes squinted at the overhead and their heads cocked to one side just like me. "Don’t feel too bad. It’s not just you," I said to myself.

On the other side, my inner perfectionist was shouting, "You usually understand it better than anyone! Why can’t you get it? Why can’t you do it right? You’re supposed to be perfect!"

**********

My brothers, my parents, and I all gathered around the TV. Each person found a comfortable couch or chair or bit of floor. My dad found the right remote and turned the channel. Pleasantville was just starting. Bud and Mary Sue sat in their own living room, idly chatting about something or other. In the movie, Bud and Mary Sue never fought. They were perfect models of how siblings should act.

I thought about the fights I often have with my brothers.

"That’s normal," my average half told me. "Everyone fights with their siblings."

But my perfect half demanded, "Why can’t you be more like Mary Sue? She’s a perfect sister. Why aren’t you a perfect sister?"

**********

No one really expects perfection, but my perfect side tells me that, so I try to make myself perfect. I wear myself out practicing my piano piece, I stay up for hours studying, I drive myself crazy trying to make up for fights I’ve had with my brothers.

I sat down at the piano and turned my book to the sonata I was supposed to play. It was some monstrous Beethoven piece. I knew how it was supposed to sound. I took a deep breath and started to practice. I could play the slow sections better than Beethoven himself. Then it got to a fast part. It sounded like a train wreck. Every note I played was wrong!

Mr. Hyde started talking to me again.

"Why can’t you play this? You should be able to play this. You’re not good enough. You have to practice this part over and over again until you’re perfect."

Sometimes I wish he would shut up.

**********

My average side wishes I hadn’t aced that Integrated Science test. It wishes I was still baffled about that Pre-Calculus material. It relishes the fights I have with my brothers. It loves to be unremarkable, normal, one with the crowd. But this part of me is very quiet. It usually lets the obsessive-compulsive part take over.

As we were talking in his study, my dad said, "Sometimes you just have to do your best and let it go. If it doesn’t turn out perfect, just get over it and move on."

He’s right, you know.

Even so, I guess I’m always going to be like this. I guess I’ll always have this little voice in my head telling me that I’m not good enough unless I’m perfect. How unfortunate. I guess the trick is to try to override my crazy obsessive-compulsive-ness and just be satisfied with what I can do. Until then, the perfectionist half of my personality will dominate, and I will always have this irrational urge to be perfect.