Maybe a Boob Job Will Fix My Alcoholism
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Maybe a Boob Job Will Fix My Alcoholism

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eating disorderThere are two websites I’m addicted to (besides Facebook and Reddit). First is LiftMagic, which conveniently lets you try out how you’d really look with a nose job. RealSelf (ironically named) is the second, and contains thousands of first-person accounts and photos of every cosmetic procedure in the galaxy. Can’t decide between silicone and saline? Not sure you want those extra hundred CCs? RealSelf has you covered. Who knows—they might even cure my alcoholism.

Before I got sober, I wore a full face of make up, complete with liquid eyeliner, false eyelashes and fake tan every single day. I couldn’t fathom leaving the house without it. This wasn’t some proud declaration of my “right to choose” as a third-wave feminist—no, it was purely an effort to mask myself. I did not want to be seen.

One morning, soon after I quit the sauce, I looked at my magnified eyeball as I coated my lashes. Suddenly I thought, “Everyone can still see what you look like—you’re not fooling anyone.” Despite my best efforts, I was still visible. I wasn’t leading you to believe I was actually 73 percent more attractive than I am; I wasn’t fooling you into thinking I was someone else. I was still the same insecure and awkward girl I was before I put my mask on.

Instead of morphing into a glowing ball of self-love, the harsh realities of sobriety have left many of us hungry for a fix. With alcohol, drugs, cigarettes and inappropriate sex partners (and sometimes also sugar, caffeine, gluten and any number of other options) out of the picture, there are precious few sources left for an external fix. Though I’ve gradually worn less on my face, stopped styling my hair and cancelled my Spray Le Vie membership, I’m still obsessed with how I look. Maybe a permanent change would fix that.

Enter, LiftMagic.

Sometimes, when I unconsciously want to check out, I start running through a wish list of procedures. I’d fix my teeth, refine my nose and lipo that annoyingly persistent curve at the top of my inner thigh. Lips, boobs, Botox—I’ll get the whole banana. At the end of this make over I can’t possibly afford, I’ll be different. Not just the way I look (which will be as close to perfect as I can get), but on the inside. Somehow, that needle filled with botulinum will inject me with self-esteem.

Okay, so it does sound ridiculous when I put it like that.

One day last week, I obsessively fiddled with my photo on LiftMagic for three fucking hours. I spent my precious time tweaking the height of my eyebrows, the width of my nose and the size of my breasts. When I was finished, I showed my boyfriend the result—the most perfect version of me he’d ever see. He glanced at the picture and (bless him) said, “I can’t see a difference.”

“But—my lips. My eyebrows…”

I was confused. And a little embarrassed. Did I really have such a distorted view of my looks? Did I imagine my numerous glaring imperfections? Or had I just, once again, fallen into the trap of thinking I could change my insides with something external?

The fact is, there are many times that I believe anything—including extensive surgery I can’t afford—is an easier and softer way to serenity than doing the work. I’ve spent countless hours digging my way out of a #thinspiration hole. I’ve succumbed to the influence of Instagram models. I’ve juiced. And while it’s easy to blame Hollywood, or the patriarchy, or the beauty industry for my image-obsession, where does blaming get me?

I grew up with the usual onslaught of Western beauty ideals permeating my pre-teen eyeballs. I had the added components of ballet—where an incredibly narrow version of femininity was fetishized—and a brain that naturally looks for a fix. I remember being 10 years old and having my dance teacher line the class up in front of the mirror, asking us to name three things about our bodies we would change. I gazed at my underdeveloped, leotard-clad body and pinched the quarter-inch of skin that covered my stomach. “Everything,” I declared when it was my turn, “but especially this.”

I honestly thought being thinner would ensure my success as a dancer and, later, my success as a human being. People will like you if you’re pretty enough, I told myself at 16. Beauty = love (or at least admiration). I did everything in my power as a kid and young adult to live up to what I thought I wanted. This included flirting with eating disorders, compulsive exercise and an unthinkable number of dollars and hours spent looking in the mirror.

Becoming aware that I prized my fuckability above my personality was uncomfortable and upsetting. As I worked the steps and stayed sober, I had to ask myself, is how attractive others find me actually important? Are these products and procedures what I really want to spend my time and money on? What is spending 90 minutes getting ready every morning doing for me (other than making me chronically late)? I discovered that I don’t actually believe my level of attractiveness is proportional to my worth, or that looking good is more valuable than being smart or kind.

Except, when I do.

The best I can say about my time and soul-sucking habit of fantasizing about my future perfection is that I recognize attempts at escape pretty quickly. Acting out feels icky. So I have to continually examine my motivations according to my new standards. I find myself conflicted, often debating whether loving myself means accepting my natural looks or consciously choosing to alter them—for me. I sometimes still want a boob job. That’s fine. I’m fucking human. It’s what I do next that defines me. Do I look for an immediate way to be of service? Do I pray, meditate and write an inventory? Or do I eat a cookie and hope the bad feeling goes away? Probably both.

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About Author

Anna-Vera Dudas is a freelance writer originally from Melbourne, Australia. An avid traveler and former sports journalist, Anna is obsessed with films, TV, good books, and is hoping to write a few one day.