<p>When I was little, I always scheduled play-days ahead of time. Over the slightest changes in plans, I hesitated and abused my poor Barbies. I desired to become a robot so I could be perfect. I spent hours in middle school choosing styles, arranging furniture, and adjusting my personality. Going on fun trips was bittersweet for me, since I always hesitated to have my perfect outfit. First I had to choose if I wanted to be cute, edgy, classy, or hip. Then I color coordinated my clothes and jewelries. Every Friday, I relocated my desk, drawers, and closets, searching for perfection. I moved my bed around, too, so it would not face the west, which was bad luck according to my mother. Did I enjoy this tedious process? No. I abhorred it wholeheartedly, but I was addicted to perfectionism.
After ninth grade, I realized I was falling behind my intelligent friends, which strongly motivated me to shift my perfectionism from my room to my academics. I strove to study more than my friends. To save time, I meticulously tried to multitask by studying for math while doing history homework, chugging meals down, skipping showers, and looking at the clock often so that time would seem to pass slowly. Each time I would disobey my rules, which was very often, I punished myself by writing it down and reading it ten times.
However, trying to save time, I wasted hours. Trying to multitask, I got nothing done. Trying to chug food down, I often got stomach aches. Skipping showers, I was always uncomfortable. Watching the clock too much, I was distracted. I was content about reaching my goal of outrunning my friends, but always felt a void inside. Stuck in performing, I was not feeling.
One Sunday morning, my grandfather, the chief staff of the Saint Marry Hospital, invited me to help him. After visiting some new faces, my grandfather took me to a room that said, Minhyo, Lee. Cancer. When I stepped into the room, a man who looked fifty waved at me with a wrinkly smile, but still somehow childish, on his face. During a conversation, I noticed how carefree and easygoing he was. Something in his calm voice emanated the genuine concern for a young girl. I thought to myself, Why does he look happier than I?I envied his simplicity. He patted my head and said, It must be tough for you to study in America. He worried about me. He, who was going to die in less than two months, worried about me, who was striving to be perfect. He, who had a full life, worried about me, who did not. By picturing my exhausted self at fifty, I taught myself to rip my thirty pages of times I wasted, stop myself from being reclusive, and overall balanced my life.
Even today when I volunteer at numerous places, I see his face. I did not overcome my perfectionism, but I control it now. Now, after changing my weakness into my strength, I am content. </p>
<p>very personal, so emmbbaarraassinggg!!!
Well, as you can see I am NOT a writer.
Can anyone make it more sophisticated T-T
And PRETTY PLEASE tell me if you think the reader would think I have issues.
Oh, and don't forget to correct/ edit it... PLEASE</p>