Frau Evelina

It's been a love and hate relationship between me and my perfectionist, Frau Evelina.
That's what I've decided to name her. A Russian raised in Germany. She has pointy glasses, very tall and slender. Her black hair is always tightly pulled back into a bun. She loves black tight fitting designer dresses and always has red lipstick on her tightly pursed lips. She has perfectly manicured nails and wears extremely high and uncomfortable RED stilettos (you can hear her coming from miles away in those heels).
She doesn't talk much, but she's always there. She constantly gives me the evil glare making sure I'm living within her rules. When I take a stumble, she does not give a hand. Instead, she towers herself over me with her arms wrapped together around her body. Then, she'll either smirk or tap her heels impatiently as I struggle to get back up.
I have an extreme craving for her approval. Like a good little girl, I go to her and ask "Is that correct? Does that please you?" I just really want her to like me...Not because she's really cool, but because she is just so damn mean to me.
And yet, after everything I have done--the fun that I've cut myself off, the blood that I've bled, the tears I have shed, the bruises, the wounds, the lies...she never once has and never will approve of me. I will never measure up to her standards.

"WHAT'S THE POINT OF HAVING YOU IN MY LIFE?"

She stands there and stares at me. Not a word. Just that look.

I'm getting better at ignoring her. When I do acknowledge her, I become utterly miserable. Most the time, I start talking to myself because she's so non-responsive to my need for her input. Usually, that's when you know Evelyn's having a rough day.

Now that I've said all of this, a surge of relief trickles over me. She's still there...standing with her arms crossed, in those disgusting high heels. She can stand in her corner all she wants (I know she will).

Without needing a word with her, I'm moving on with my day.