At 39, Michelle Roniak appears to have it all but beneath the surface lives her all-consuming obsession with physical perfection. Every day begins with her rejecting what she sees in the mirror. 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 but what is meant to be a “nip and tuck” and routine liposuction — performed by a highly recommended surgeon — goes horribly wrong. Here is an extract from her book Undone.
EXTRACT
Even before my botched cosmetic surgery, I lived with the deep conviction that I was a factory reject.
From an early age, I believed that I was born defective, assembled from inferior parts. As I grew, most of my energy was consumed by not wanting to be me. I morphed, obsessed, camouflaged, sliced, filled, injected and agonised. I was constantly paddling upstream. I measured myself against a life shaped by a “perfect” cookie-cutter template; any deviation from this ideal signified failure.
My formative years were shaped by the allure of the Cindy Crawford-esque hourglass figure, clad in the body-hugging leotards that defined the catwalk and supermodel era of the 80s. Childhood fairy tales taught me that beauty equalled goodness and ugliness signified evil. I was surrounded by Barbie dolls whose impossible proportions were designed to embody nature’s so-called “Golden Ratio” — the perfect breast-waist-hip symmetry that allegedly triggers a primal response in the male brain and is guaranteed to attract the ideal suitor.
I was a chubby child and teenager in a world largely inhabited by “skinny girls”. My “fatness” isolated me; it was just more evidence that I was the odd one out. I was constantly being compared with my conventionally attractive younger sister, and from the sidelines I saw how differently people treated her. In my eyes, she had the perfect golden ratio. I developed eating disorders, had tortured relationships with men and found myself consumed by body-focused repetitive behaviours that were desperate attempts to control what felt uncontrollable. But they were just symptoms of a more pathological problem brewing beneath the surface. It manifested as deep self-rejection that no scale could measure.
Then came the seductive body and face-altering surgeries. At first it was intoxicating, offering the taste of change. Nothing too drastic; just a small amendment here and there.
Every time I felt something was missing, I searched the internet to learn how I could change myself and make the pain or discomfort go away.
I was seduced by images of fuller lips and perkier breasts, so much so that by the time I was in my mid-20s, I’d had my first boob job and Botox had become a habit. Once I was in my 30s, I was getting quotations for a mini facelift and fat injections.
My mantra was: “Anything I don’t like, I can change.” Resorting to “procedures” became my secret weapon, my ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card.
That’s until I had the surgery that almost broke me: the one that undid me. The botch.
In the years that followed, I would discover that I suffered from a condition called body dysmorphic disorder — a preoccupation with perceived defects or flaws in one’s physical appearance that are barely, if at all, noticeable to the outside world. Writing this book has shown me that changing yourself is sometimes the hardest route back to your true self.
At my lowest point, on 28 January 2018, I wrote to Dignitas, the Swiss organisation that provides physician-assisted suicides. To write this letter and remain anonymous, I created a fake name — “Cath” — and a Gmail account to use for my underground suicide research.
Dear Dignitas,
I apologise for the nature of my email, although I am sure you are well versed in the arena of death and suffering. You are, of course, known to be the most liberal of organisations when it comes to the subject of death.
I am a 39-year-old female suffering from an undiagnosed mental disorder. In short, I hate myself. I hate the way I look and strongly feel I can’t carry on living. I’ve done all the counselling, antidepressants, self-help books etc ... for years, in fact. I simply feel that my soul and physical body have been a complete mismatch from birth.
Ever since my first memory, I have been unhappy within myself, and I don’t want to carry on living like this. I want to exit, but I want to do it gracefully and not cause any more devastation to my loved ones than I have to. I just want to do it peacefully without blood and gore or any lasting traumatising images. I am very nervous of overdosing, as I don’t want to underdose and then become brain-damaged.
Are there any options for someone in my situation or any resources you could recommend? I know this seems inhumane, but one way or another I am going to do this. So, I just want to make sure it’s done properly and with dignity. Thanks so much for reading.
Regards,
Cath
On the night that I pushed “send”, I felt utterly helpless and devoid of a future. I was barely existing, more ghost-like than human. How did I get to this low point?
Undone: Healing from Botched Surgery — A Memoir by Michelle Roniak is published by Melinda Ferguson Books
