As a plastic surgery addict, I've found the coronavirus pandemic has an unexpected upside

Recently, Governor Cuomo ordered all elective surgeries be cancelled in New York state. I was relieved to read this, but not because of the coronavirus pandemic. As a 34-year-old woman with body dysmorphic disorder, I've been plagued with issues regarding my appearance since I was a teenager. I've had a laundry list of surgeries with varying levels of success but I've never been satisfied with any outcome. Many procedures I had were spontaneous decisions I made when I felt low without much thought into how they would affect my health or finances. The city battling this devastating virus, and plastic surgeons being asked to donate their anesthesia machines, has been an unforeseeable blessing for addicts like me. It has, for a while at least, saved me from myself.

Like most adolescents, I wasn't satisfied with my appearance — but things weren’t that bad until I got bullied about my looks during high school. When I later learned about body modification in my favorite beauty rags, I was elated. What I couldn't disguise with a concealer I wanted to be excised from my face.

After receiving my first nose job at 21, I ended up with an uneven profile. Fearing that I would never find success with subpar looks, I had a revision the following year. My self-esteem worsened following an accident where I had to have both my Achilles' tendons reconstructed and I was confined to a wheelchair for months. I spent my days surfing the internet and discovered an outlet for my compulsion by joining online groups fixated with plastic surgery. I scrutinized side-by-side photographs of celebrities I wanted to emulate with seemingly perfect lives like Blake Lively and Scarlett Johanssen to determine if they looked “done”. I thought that if I could access the procedures they might have had, I could also access their success.

I had limited access to the funds necessary to go through with more procedures. As a struggling bartender with dreams of acting, I was forced to hold off on getting any more plastic surgery for a while. Yet my need to attain physical perfection didn't wane. Instead, it lay dormant as I spent hours comparing my body parts to those of famous actors and models. When I eventually became a beneficiary to my father's estate several years ago, my warped fantasies came back with a vengeance.

Unhappy and aimless at 32, I was sure my corrected appearance would change the trajectory of my life. I consulted with some of the most esteemed doctors on Park Avenue, often being seen by two practices in one day. While many doctors noted that I was already slim at 5'7'' and 112 pounds, I was never turned away by any surgeon.

I’ll never forget the day one artificially tanned specialist with large ivory veneers pointed to a pretty redhead that manned his front desk and told me, ”She's had everything done, and look how good she looks now." The nurse skipped right over to me and pointed at imperceptible marks on her knees. "I had fat knees but you can't even tell now," she chirped. I looked down at my knees and saw they were fatter than I had ever realized. I rationalized why it was now imperative that I get those done too.

Realizing I would need to get more cosmetic surgery than I had originally planned, I opted for a trip to Colombia as a medical tourist because the cost was a fraction of what it would be back home. There, I spent two weeks in recovery following extensive surgery that included full-body liposuction (including my knees), a butt augmentation, a labiaplasty, and fat transfers to my face. I lived through excruciating pain, covering my entire body in ice packs to make it through the day. I fell in and out of consciousness as my blood pressure dropped dangerously low because I was unable to eat. When I returned home, I noticed uneven dents on my stomach and thighs. I felt dejected. My life remained stagnant and the changes I made to my body went unnoticed by everyone but me.

I found my way to a therapist's office and the feelings of worthlessness and anxiety poured out of me. I learned to stop trying to fix my internal world by changing how I was perceived on the outside. By talking through the painful moments in my life that I had buried, I began to feel better. Yet I still struggle to curb my urges to tweak my appearance when there is no usual support network or daily routine.

For surgery addicts like myself, the unhealthy behaviors are an ill-conceived way we learned to cope. While these mechanisms may work for a short time, eventually they make life unmanageable. It took years to recognize that my obsession was debilitating and not a “funny quirk”.

The mounting feelings of fear and uncertainty due to this health crisis will inevitably trigger many addicts to relapse. For those whose drug of choice is plastic surgery, many would cope with their feelings by seeking external remedies. The Surgeon General's order to stop elective surgeries will keep those of us that are vulnerable to disordered thinking from making rash choices that could cost us our lives.