The price of beauty: How a simple ‘nip and tuck’ turned into a fight for survival

AT 39, Michelle Roniak appears to have it all: a thriving business, a vibrant social life, and a loving family. But beneath the surface lives her all-consuming obsession with physical perfection. Life is a relentless cycle of starving, dieting, and binging. Every day begins with her rejecting what she sees in the mirror: "I need to change this… fix that… If only I could lose five kilos and have a flat stomach… If only my waist were smaller and my smile wider…"

After a boob job at 21, followed by regular sessions of Botox and fillers over the next two decades, the lure of the surgeon’s aesthetic toolbox finally draws Michelle in. What is meant to be a “nip and tuck” and routine liposuction – performed by a highly recommended surgeon – goes horribly wrong. The complications are disastrous, turning her quest for the ideal body into a brutal war within and a battle for her survival. Michelle’s harrowing journey exposes the current global plastic surgery pandemic and unravels the hidden epidemic of shame and silence surrounding cosmetic procedures gone wrong.  Her healing from body dysmorphia and botched surgery ultimately becomes Michelle’s own beautiful revolution.

BOOK EXTRACT 

MY self-image used to create a constant baseline state of shame and self-hatred. For years, I kept hammering away at wanting to change myself, to be “normal”, to shrink or disappear in order to blend in. It was excruciating work, and my warped quest for flawlessness and perfection sucked me dry.

I was fully aware that my physical issues were not noticeable to most people. I was terrified that my grief over the loss of my once-functioning body would become a laughing matter, that I’d be mocked and derided when people discovered what I had done. I was afraid that I’d be accused of willing it to happen, that I’d be seen as hysterical and/or self-indulgent.

I came to realise that before the botched surgery, I’d had no real voice of my own, despite believing that I was a rebel.  

In truth, I followed the herd. I tried to construct my image according to those around me by starving, carving and punishing myself. I set myself impossible goals. I nodded along to the doctors’ assurances, even when my gut clenched with doubt. I tried to smile through the post-op agony and told friends and family I was “fine” because I didn’t want to burden them. Saying “fine” was easier than explaining the turmoil inside me.

And so I stayed quiet. And I felt terribly alone.

I now understand why AA, NA and all the other anonymous 12-step groups are so important in overcoming addiction. Not only do they offer the steps to guide the addict, but the support and shared experience are paramount, so the addict doesn’t feel like they are the only person going through the ordeal of sobriety.

To my knowledge, there isn’t a Plastic Surgery Anonymous.

Perhaps it’s because there is so much shame and taboo attached to the subject. As a result, I’ve not been able to join a support group and struggled to find someone online who’s gone through something like this. 

Sure, there are Overeaters Anonymous and Food Addicts Anonymous groups, but nothing specifically for people who have had botched surgeries.

I haven’t even found a published memoir written by someone who’s gone through what I have, but I keep looking. Instead, I’ve managed to read a lot of “upheaval” memoirs and watch documentaries about people whose lives have been ripped out from under them due to disease, accidents, wars and immobility.

In all these “rising from the ashes” stories, a common theme of transformation always emerges.

I’ve taken comfort from these people who have triumphantly put the pieces of their lives back  together. I’ve connected to their experiences of unimaginable suffering and been inspired by how they’ve come out on the other side, stronger for it. They have been brave enough to write and share their stories, and they have inspired me to do the same.

These memoirs and doccies have been my “people” and my groups.

At my lowest, I feared that my solitary silence would be my permanent state. I longed for death. I believed that the botched surgery was somehow my fault. After all, I had signed up for it.

Shame is a powerful warden; it convinced me to hide my scars, isolate and carry my terrible secret on my own. I became that frozen lake: cold, still, and lifeless under the weight of all that had gone wrong. 

When the inner ice finally began to melt, my transformation began quietly. It started with a single crack – a moment of honesty late one night when I finally admitted to myself that I was not okay.

It was a tiny admission, almost inaudible. That minuscule crack spread gradually. I found myself telling a close friend the truth about what I was going through. Instead of rejection, I was met with compassion and assistance. That simple act of being heard without judgment felt like a warm current moving beneath the ice, reminding me I wasn’t as alone as I had feared.

With each truth I spoke, the ice cracked a little more. Piece by piece, I felt the silence give way to a tiny trickle of water. I began to hear something unexpected: my own voice. It had been there all along, submerged under years of acquiescence and inner suffering, but now it was breaking the surface.  Slowly, the authentic “Yes Woman” in me was born, the one who embraced adventures and life. The one who said “yes” to my own well-being, “yes” to healthy boundaries and “yes” to rebuilding my life on my terms. I also learned to say “no” to what harmed me. “No, I will not remain silent about my pain. No, I will not accept blame for what was done to me.”

With every boundary I set and every honest “yes” or “no” I voiced, I felt myself growing stronger, rising up from the depths.

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