***Trigger warning: pregnancy, traumatic birth story. (Skip the ‘Tears’ section to avoid)***
We are mere days away from the arrival of 2024, and I’m sitting in a borrowed rocking chair amidst strewn Christmas presents and a slightly lopsided tree…recovering from a major elected abdominoplasty and diastasis recti muscle repair surgery. As I enter the third week of healing, I can reflect on the fact that the past fortnight has felt surreal and scary.
There’s been an air of that whistling slow-motion silence you sometimes observe in action films, where the blast of an explosion has gone off and the main character is stumbling amongst the wreckage in a grey-scale trance. There’s an odd peace to the eerie quiet, and you can acknowledge somewhat that the people on the periphery of your consciousness are more active than you are, but you can’t quite extricate yourself from the internal bubble just yet. Then you come back to yourself with a rush of air.
And you know that life has changed somewhat.
That you have changed.
But you’re not sure how…or why.
Now obviously, I am not a disorientated actor in an epic battle sequence…I am extremely lucky and privileged in only having to endure this obscure scene in my head as my husband buzzes around me, feeding me, keeping me comfortable, fluffing my pillows and making me laugh when I’m spiralling. Side note: Don’t marry a man that you find hilarious if you plan on having abdominal surgery at some point. He will make a variety of top jokes in the initial days post-operation about how your pubic area has puffed up like a Ken doll on steroids; you will belly laugh; then cry with the agony of muscle spasms and want to simultaneously end his life.
Either way, despite it all sounding fairly dramatic, the fortunate fact is that I am safe and OK. But it is true that I have ridden a roller coaster of familiar and unexpected emotions while travelling the path of cosmetic surgery… from research, to consultations, to going through with it and coming out the other side.
And importantly, it’s given me an opportunity to reflect on some valuable questions for this blog:
Why do people have cosmetic surgery?
How does cosmetic surgery tie in with self-worth?
What does it mean in terms of our identity, and how that might be wrapped up in body image, intimacy, sex, relationships and the ENM lifestyle?
The prevalence of cosmetic surgery is increasing, which is confirmed by recent stats outlined by the BAAPS (British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons) National Audit that there was a 102% rise in procedures in 2022. Interestingly, women made up 93% of these procedures; the most common of which were breast augmentation, breast reduction, abdominoplasty and liposuction.
It could also be argued (with absolutely no solid evidence other than my own eyes) that the popularity of aesthetic procedures is potentially even higher in the ENM lifestyle too. Put simply, I have come across many an enhanced breast, more than a few tummy tucks, and a high number of filled lips and sculpted physiques when wandering around a sex club, and when talking to a range of people in this world. That’s not to say that there isn’t a diverse range of body types and appearances in the lifestyle at all… but there does seem to be slightly more consideration given to health, fitness and aesthetics within ENM arenas, in comparison to vanilla circles (at least in my experience). I’ve often wondered- is this because generally, we tend to put our physical selves more regularly on display in the lifestyle, and so we naturally think about our external appearance more? Or is it that I’m just looking for these patterns because of my personal experiences, and in actuality, the ENM world is simply a microcosm of society?
I doubt BAAPS has sent their researchers specifically into Luton’s Penthouse Playrooms or London’s Le Boudoir to collate these statistics for us, but in terms of the general population, they state that:
“The increase in procedures like breast reductions indicate that people are being influenced by wellness and improving the quality of their lives. Cosmetic surgery, when performed safely by a qualified plastic surgeon, has a hugely positive psychological impact. Many procedures such as breast reduction or abdominoplasty also carry physical benefits. Looking internationally, this increase in cosmetic procedures is replicated across the world and appears to be sustained even in economic uncertainty.“
But you didn’t click on this link to read stats did you?
Let’s wander through some embarrassingly vulnerable details of how I got to the point where I was willing to go under the knife!
Hot Times
I remember on my birthday a few months ago that my husband and I had a couple visit us from afar, for a night of playful fun. I had the usual nerves that I experience before being properly intimate with people for the first time, and we went through the usual rigmarole of my husband turning into Cillit’s Barry Scott with cleaning the house (BANG! And your afternoon is gone), and me shaving/ polishing 99% of my body so as to assume the skin-quality of a dolphin. We were ready.
Later in the evening… the boys were enjoying a Whiskey in the kitchen and I had taken the beautiful woman upstairs to get dressed into something way more uncomfortable.
She sat with her back against my bed and watched me intently as I stood before her, wearing a royal blue bodysuit with a lace trim lining my hips and a halter neck band by the collar bone; the cut-out slit straining against my chest. I was initially feeling pretty decent, having hidden my much-hated stomach beneath the expertly layered and merciful tummy control of this lingerie. But then I briefly looked down at her with a wonky smile that said “well here I am”, suddenly feeling anything but confident as her eyes widened.
She was the most complimentary lover I have ever experienced, and was openly in awe of my body at this point. I should have been revelling in the rarity that is somebody’s appreciation of your body that is given with such frequency and wild abandon… but I was crumbling under her gaze. My fingers trailed my stomach and all I felt was sadness for how I could never look at myself the way she was looking at me, and how I had wasted years of my life avoiding mirrors and any clothing that would skim my belly.
And this is the internal war of somebody who has undergone years of personal therapy; years of actual counselling training; and who spends her professional life supporting others through a range of mental health problems, including incredibly similar body image and dysmorphia issues.
I know the value of inner self-worth. I understand the process of overcoming fixations and the experiences that can lead to shame and low self-esteem. I have worked hard to overcome many of my inner battles throughout my life. But we are all a work in progress, and this means that like millions of other humans, I am right there with you in dealing with some residual shit!
Anyway, I was able to mask the commentary in my head with this woman and enjoy a night of seriously hot times… but I haven’t forgotten how uncomfortable I was under the spotlight of another person’s perception of me, even though it was wholly positive.
I wanted to embody that positive perception for myself, and I resolved to continue working towards it when a weekend away with some of our closest lifestyle friends came up a few weeks later…
We know the couple we were holidaying with very well, and I often feel most like myself around them; they comfort and ground me when I’m feeling unbalanced, and we have experienced some of the most exciting times with them, inside and outside of the bedroom. I’m remembering the pure adrenaline of days out, filled with sexual tension, and nights of sounds…naked skin… piles of bodies…laughter. And the strange thing is that despite there never having been a time with them in which I don’t feel accepted or celebrated for my body (and the rest), it has often been even harder for me to show up for them as the confident, sensual person that I know I am. I feel they deserve the best of me, and I put too much pressure on myself to present that. I know that they, along with my husband, would ultimately disagree and have often said that I embody all of these things and more when we are all together, but internally I often feel physically disappointing in comparison. Which is so boring…and frustrating…and really bloody heartbreaking sometimes.
So… what does it mean for me…and for you…if we are struggling to this degree with body image issues?
Should we spend our lives dieting and exercising to change our external selves?
Should we just put up with our perceived physical flaws and get on with it the best we can?
Should we be proactive and look into aesthetic procedures to reduce, to enhance, to change?
Should we go to therapy instead…or alongside?
Well.
Of course we should show ourselves the love and care that our body (and mind) deserves by living healthy, active lives, eating as well as we can, and going to therapy when we need support and understanding.
Am I good at this? Not always. I like snacks too much.
But I know this has to be the goal.
As for ‘putting up’ with things or ignoring that something is a problem… I’m not an advocate of this because I believe in action, and being empowered to make changes that are right for you. Only you know what your path should be as
You are the expert on yourself.
But when it comes to looking at aesthetic procedures and cosmetic surgeries to address areas of your body that you wish to change, most sensible people would encourage you to put some prior work into exploring other avenues first.
Because let me tell you. Surgery is no joke. It is not without risk. It’s not a fix-all. And it doesn’t erase the inner mental health work that you could have benefited from beforehand.
I’m always reminded here of a quote in the wonderful film that is Cool Runnings, in which Irvin Blitzer says:
“A gold medal is a wonderful thing. But if you’re not enough without one, you’ll never be enough with one.”
The same goes for our idea of the bodies we walk around in. An ideal body is a wonderful thing. But if you’re not enough without one, you’ll never be enough with one.
So, before I took the plunge of surgery, I had to do the inner work first… so that if, or when the time came that I decided to have an abdominoplasty… it would be as an external representation of who I am on the inside, rather than a replacement for what I felt I was lacking as a person.
And it took 7 long years…
Tears
It was June 2016 and I was 36 weeks pregnant. I had a final check-up at the hospital and the lovely nurse did not hide her shock as I stepped on to the scales and she recorded that I had put on 4 stone 5lb in the past 8 months. She was in actual disbelief and weighed me twice thinking the machine had broken.
It wasn’t.
Four weeks later, on my exact due date, I gave birth to a huge baby who was on the 98th percentile for height and weight, and I was left with a stomach that looked like a deflated bouncy castle at the end of a candy-fuelled four year old’s birthday party. Except Freddie Krueger had also carved out about a million stretch marks on my abdomen at the same time.
The birth of my son was the most traumatic thing to happen to me in my life to date. There was pain so horrific due to infection, that had somebody given me the option to end it all in those hours, I would have. I wish I was exaggerating, but it’s true. There were complications; there was screaming; there was the risk of me and my son dying if he did not arrive soon; there was a crash team; there was the intensive care unit and separation from my baby; a week long stay in a heatwave, with a baby that screamed for 8 hours straight and a midwife who told his crying mother “welcome to motherhood, lady”.
There were two ensuing years of Post Natal Depression. Two years of numbness and tears.
And I know it sounds silly on the surface of it…but from that day on, whenever I looked at my stomach, I was immediately taken back to the darkest of times. And it made me sick. The trauma of that time in my life had become wrapped up in something as superficial as my body and it wasn’t just my body anymore. It was sadness; fear; heartbreak.
It wasn’t mine.
And that continued for a long time.
Fast forward through the years, I have raised a son who is the most magical, gorgeous member of our family. I have a husband who has carried me through the rough years and celebrated with me through the good ones. I have undergone so many hours of therapy, quit a successful career because it didn’t make me happy, and earned my own place as a qualified counsellor. I have carved out an honest, loving, and exciting ethically non-monogamous marriage with my husband, had some wild adventures and met some of my favourite people. I have grown significantly in all areas of my life and have done a lot of the inner work to get myself to a place in which I have been able to embrace most facets of myself and live a much more authentic existence. And that’s with the understanding that this evolution continues and with the anticipation of many more happy memories to be made.
A work in progress.
And so in 2023…I decided I was ready. I was going to have my muscles repaired from pregnancy, and give myself the gift of a stomach that resembled who I was before I endured some really complex stuff. I decided it for me, and only me.
Tummy Tuck
In a nutshell, my research began in the Spring time, I had my first consultation at a private hospital in the Summer, and my elective surgery was booked for mid December.
I lost additional weight for optimum results;
Had pre-op assessments completed;
Injected blood thinners;
Stood for brightly lit ‘before’ photos in front of my surgeon’s Polaroid camera with my eyes averted;
Waited for hours before finally being wheeled down to surgery;
Woke up in immense pain and cried down the phone to my husband shortly after the operation to lament about what I had done…but couldn’t say any words.
I stared at the ceiling of my hospital room and watched every hour go by on the first night… wrapped in a binder, attached to drains, and with a scar that split me in half wondering what the fuck I had put myself through.
But. It was done.
And I had to trust myself in the following days and weeks that I had made a decision that was true to me. Even in the dead of night when I felt like I had made all of the mistakes. Even when I was crushed by guilt that I couldn’t be the Mum I wanted to be. Even when I felt like a huge burden as my husband tried to keep his business going while caring for me and our son around the clock. Even when my mind ruminated on thoughts of whether I would ever feel normal again; have wild sex again; or even cough, sneeze, laugh or orgasm without pain again!
And I still don’t have answers to all of these wonderings yet. I’m still in the raw, vulnerable, painful part of recovery…but I am healing well.
What has been most interesting is the significance of this surgery scar that slices from one hip to the other, for me. It is obnoxious, angry and jagged. It strains and it swells and it screams its presence to me through my bandages every time I move, and sits there stubbornly as I tilt my head at it in the mirror.
But I don’t fear it or dislike it at all.
It’s almost as though I have begun to erase a mental scar by allowing it to be presented on the outside of me. I’m appreciative of the work my surgeon has done and although I’m anxious about every new step in the process, I’m allowing myself to trust it’ll turn out OK. I even sent my first nude photo to a friend and that is something I haven’t done since the questionable decisions I made as a late teen!
So…
New year, new…. me?
I’m not one for reinventing myself every January for three key reasons:
- That would imply that the old me isn’t all that…and I’m teaching myself to embrace all versions of ‘me’ as a I go along.
- I’m the type that if I gave up on a resolution two weeks into the New Year, I’d convince myself to just wait until January 1st of the following year to make a new one…which isn’t all that conducive to change! So I leave any day open for new goals. Try again tomorrow.
- January is bleak enough without denying myself carbs or the odd Aperol Spritz.
Despite all of that…this year I am ‘changed’ in some ways. Although 2024 doesn’t necessarily mean a new me, I am undergoing a physical revealing of how I feel as a woman. It’s a shedding of motherhood wounds and the weight of self-consciousness. It’s an emotional and mental reclaiming of my identity in physical form.
Of course, I continue to advocate for finding self-worth from within but at the same time, I don’t find my simultaneous decisions regarding having cosmetic surgery as hypocritical as it could be viewed (by some). Finding the courage to put myself through pain to reveal to myself a more whole version of me is enabling me to externally show up as the culmination of mental and emotional inner work I have achieved in recent years.
That showing up for yourself will ultimately look different for every unique person, but for me, this is part of it. An evolution of inner confidence is happening, which is always exciting as a human being!
New Year, New…You?
You don’t need fixing.
You don’t need changing.
You don’t need external validation of your inner self-worth.
But hey… if you have something in mind that is going to make you as happy as me when I add a bikini to my online basket in 2024, then who am I to judge!
Whatever you do though…tread kindly; tread safely; tread wisely.
And do it only for you.
Happy New Year from me to you… x
Beyond the Pineapple 
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