By S. N. HayesÂ
I am acutely aware of every noise that surrounds me. Every drop of a pen. Every clicking sound, even the small ticking of the clock to the back of the room. I am aware when the counselor shifts his weight, and the way his feet move ever so slightly at 30 second intervals.
I am also aware that he thinks I am crazy. That I am some conundrum that cannot be solved. He pours over manuals, and tries to piece together a diagnosis. Like a sculpture moving the clay until the pieces fit just right. Moving a little to the side so that it looks like a nose, and then just an inch more until he forms a haphazard eye.
I close my eyes to try and contain my frustration with the fluorescent lighting. Like everything else in this cramped office, they are too stimulating. I want to be back home in my small dark bedroom, curled up under the blankets with earplugs squeezed into my ears and headphones blaring.
Instead I am sitting across from Doctor Abernathy, who swears there must be something he can do to help. “No one is hopeless,” He had said to me when I remarked that there was nothing he could do.
Now, he pushes his glasses up to his forehead, his nose scrunched and worry lines forming on his 45-year-old cheekbones.
I told you so, I think. I told you that I was too strange to fix.
The first time I read the tell-tale heart, I remember thinking of its oddity. How a heart-beat could be so loud, so absurd, that the madness within the mind could close in over a person and cause them to reveal their greatest weaknesses. I wonder now, if Poe had an affliction like mine. Perhaps he heard the sounds so deep inside him that his mental anguish poured upon his paper.
Like Lady Macbeth wiping her hands of the since washed blood, my ears will never be new again. I live with this turmoil inside of me.
I am sitting across from my boyfriend Michael in a restaurant. I held my breath for most of the car-ride, anxious of our arrival. He is trying to be nice, trying to show me how much he loves me for our one-year anniversary. My hands are trembling as I sit at the table. Our table is too exposed. I wanted one in the corner, but this was the only table available. Yet another problem. There are too many people. Plates are clanking in the background, forks scraping against the ceramic. Then there’s the chewing. Michael smiles at me, his curly black hair wrapped around his ears. He’s so carefree, reaching out his hand to touch mine. I wince, pulling it back.
It’s not that I don’t want to touch him. I love Michael, his warmth, and the way he had presented me with flowers. But, I don’t want to be touched. My body feels like pins and needles.
“What’s wrong?” He asks. I can hardly hear him as I try to differentiate the sound of his voice from that of the man at a table next to ours, chewing on his ice as he drinks.
I’m flustered. “Nothing,” I say, looking over our menu.
We’ve been here for roughly 2 minutes. Then, a full explosion happens within me. I can hear the kitchen staff, a sharp whistling noise as they work. Hot tears fall down my face. I’m being ridiculous, the look of shock on Micheal’s face makes that clear.
I get up from the table, throwing down the menu and shaking my head. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay here,” I say, and grab my purse and walk as fast as I can toward the outfit. Once outside, I press my back against the brick, taking deep breaths as I try and keep myself from having a panic attack.
“What was that about?” He asks. I can tell he’s frustrated. I had just made a scene in-front of an entire restaurant.
I try to calm now that I am away from the noise but it repeats inside my brain. I can feel it knocking against my skull. I want to go back and hit the kitchen worker. I want to scream and accuse him of ruining my experience.
Instead, I take a small breath, still trembling. Still feeling the rage inside me.
Michael stares at me.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
I shake my head.
No, I’m not okay. I am under attack. The entire world is out to get me, smothering me under its loudness.
“I don’t understand why the noises make you react like this,” He says.
“Neither do I,” I say. “But they do.”
“I’ve had this reservation for weeks,” He says. Like I should feel bad that I ruined our evening.
“Good for you,” I snap.
“I was trying to do something nice, have a normal evening out with you,” He says.
I close my eyes, trying to get the image of the whistling out of my head. Maybe I should feel guilty for ruining our date, but I don’t. I just feel overwhelmed.
“I want to go home,” I say.
“What about the movies?” He asks.
I don’t want to sit in a dark theater and listen to popcorn chewing, or drinks slurping. My bra is tight, and my jeans are pressing against my legs.
“I want to go home,” I say, yet again.
He sighs, exasperated. Frustrated with my lack of normalcy.
“We could watch a movie at your place,” He suggests, but I’ve already spent all my energy. I just want to be by myself.
“Just drop me off,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Why do you always have to overreact?”
I stomp toward the car, get in, and slam the door behind me.
He follows, getting in. “Yeah, you just proved my point on the overreacting.”
I don’t speak. How am I supposed to explain something that I don’t understand myself? All I know is that when it happens – when the sounds cause anger, I feel so overwhelmed. Everything inside of me wants to escape, or to fight back. I feel traumatized by the event. I think of it as I fall asleep at night. I cry myself to sleep because I don’t know when the next sound will happen. I don’t know when the sounds will stop bothering me.
To the outside world, it was just a whistle. Alarming, yes, perhaps it may have even hurt their ears. For me, the sound lasted hours. It beat against the core of my ears, repeating itself constantly until I became so upset I finally cried myself to sleep. I knew, rationally, that it was just a sound but I could not shake the experience.
Mr. Abernathy clicks his pen and it’s as though a bullet goes off. He does it again, and I try not to say anything, my fists wrapping into balls.
“Does that bother you?” He asks.
I nod, wanting to explain how it’s so loud inside my brain. How every crevice of my body feels assaulted by the sound.
“Hmm,” He says and then he scribbles something down on his yellow legal pad. As he finishes, he’s careful not to click the pen, and places it on the desk gently.
“What’s wrong with me?” I blurt out, almost in tears.
I want to be a normal person. One that can go on dates with my boyfriend, or watch movies with popcorn and not freak out.
He hesitates for a moment, chewing on his lip. When he finally speaks, I’m not ready to hear what he has to say, “I don’t know,”. His words cut me. Not even a doctor of can figure me out.
If you are looking for misophonia coping skills, you can go here to see coaching (worldwide) and here to see therapy (Canada) options with Shaylynn Hayes-Raymond. Shaylynn also offers both live and on-demand webinars for misophonia.