My mouth is an open wound

As I chew, my canines rub against these little white holes, and my eyes redden with tears.

Photography and words: Harry Gay

Photography assist: Edward Gay

Every week starts the same. I wake up in the morning with a stinging pain in the lower half of my face. My tongue slides around in gentle caresses, my mouth dotted with fleshy craters, assessing the damage. One, two, three, four: lip, gum, cheek, tongue.

For years now I have struggled with ulcers. A bite of any food and I have to immediately cup my face and shield my screams. Be it toast, or a smoothie, a coffee, or even water, any substance sluicing off my gums and teeth. As I chew, my canines rub against these little white holes, and my eyes redden with tears.

I’ve tried many numbing remedies. Gargling salt water only relieves it momentarily. Kenalog is a topical ointment that solidifies into a glue, filling my mouth with a strange gooey substance that makes it harder to talk than when I had the pain. Bonjela has the sensation of someone digging their nails into my sores — everytime I apply it feels as if I am going to die, the pain is so unbearable.

I am a medical anomaly, according to the doctors I’ve visited. Swabs of spittal and vials of blood, I am cleared of any issues. Not a zinc level out of place. Given a bottle of supplements and a tube of ointment, I am on my own.

When I was younger, I would fantasise about all the ways I could alleviate this pain. A short, sharp, momentary amount of suffering would surely be greater than spending the rest of my life in agony. Images of me taking freeze dried ice and pressing it against my mouth floated in my mind. I would punch my leg, pull my hair and pinch my skin, trying to redirect my focus elsewhere. I dreamt of taking a pair of scissors to the bathroom mirror and cutting my lips clean off. If only to relieve myself of this suffering, and so I may never have ulcers again.