The Plasticine Mask

IMAGE: Marina Gross-Hoy

    The clay bricks stacked in the corner of my mind await our morning ritual. The house is silent as I sculpt the material, defining the mouth, the eyes, the nose, the cheeks. It is a painstaking effort in the truest sense of the word. Once done, the mask will set while I have my coffee.

Plasticine smiles are the most challenging element. Done poorly, the smile fails to convince. Too exaggerated, it becomes ghoulish.  One needs to draw upon old memories to shape the entirety. This is how it looked on the day I met my future husband. This is how it looked when we moved into our first house. 

The one element that can not be helped is the eyes themselves. These remain hollow unless interacting. An astute individual can suss the awkward synergy, or perhaps the complete lack of any, between eyes and mask. The truth is glaringly obvious to them.

By the same token, the voice itself must be molded to fit the mask's expression. It is a performance that must be flawless - one can not simply act. The production must be believable or the charade is lost.

At this point, I should thank you for reading this far. If your mind is questioning what exactly is being hidden, the answer is "pain". Yes, these masks are suitable for covering up depressive episodes but, for the most part, I use mine to spare my loved ones concern while decreasing my burden upon them.

I am no stranger to chronic pain. I spent almost my entire life battling monthly hell. Part of the reason that I'm able to ration my opioids is due to that war; the medications do not cause me to feel high or stoned.

The increasing scarcity concerning doctors that will prescribe an opioid, as well as the limit for how many pills can be prescribed (three days only), has resulted in daily mask sculpting for so many chronic pain patients. We can not give in to the pain. We can not afford losing complete control. Our minds and body wage war against each other. The mask hides that battle from view.

I awake, claw myself out of bed, stagger to the bathroom, and scream into a towel. Then I make coffee. More accurately, my nerves cause me to sprinkle grinds all over the counter. Or pour too much creamer into my cup. Or drop said cup and start over. Anger mixes with excruciating pain. I  remind myself that the towels are upstairs. The dishtowels just don't cut it. I begin to mentally slap clay onto the mold.

The house is still quiet as I make my way upstairs. Both my husband and mother have not awoken. I slip into my little office and write. Or curl up in the chair. Or return to the bathroom and grab a towel. The focus is on that mask. I must marshal my strength to banish the visual vestiges of pain before people wake up.

"Good morning, Mum!"

She smiles. "Good morning. How do you feel this morning?"

"I'm in a lot of pain." It comes out as a controlled sigh. I furrow my brows. "It should go away soon. I'll get you to the store later today."

What I mean is, "I'm skipping some pain meds so I can drive you. I don't mind. You're worth the world to me. I love you."

The mask is essential for this very reason.

There are occasional cracks. I need to go to the emergency room; my winces and clumsiness betray me; I lay on the bed or my comfy chair and ride the opioid relief into sleep. I am very fortunate to be married to a good man that understands the struggle from a first-hand perspective.

The Plasticine scent is heavy in the air. I slipped on a mask this morning. Keeping it on today will be a struggle. I am not looking forward to the internal battle.