Misophonia Hell
The only certainties in my life are death, taxes, and Misophonia. If anyone ever wants me to quit a job so they don’t have to fire me or wants me to break up with them so they don’t have to break up with me first, just sniffle enough times and you’re sure to be off the hook.
Misophonia has many definitions across various dictionaries and medical sources, but I find Britannica’s the most comprehensive: “disorder marked by low tolerance of and unusually strong negative physiological, emotional, and behavioral reactions to specific sounds or to stimuli related to such sounds.” The sounds that have given rise to my anger and tears since childhood do not simply bother me. I apparently have a neurological disorder with no cure. Supposedly one in five people have it, but it’s an uncommon, dare I say stigmatized, topic of conversation because it sounds dramatic and made-up. Trigger warnings have been normalized, but I don’t ever expect people to go around saying “Oh no, sorry I triggered your sound disease” or “so sorry I breathed wrong in front of you.”
But it’s true: my Misophonia triggers my fight-or-flight. Every muscle in my body starts to tense and I find myself unable to focus on whatever I’m doing. Sometimes a chill runs down my spine or my eye twitches. If I had a dick it would probably shrivel and recoil into my body and I wouldn’t be able to have children due to the trauma. Maybe hearing tiny mouth noises actually kills my eggs and that’s the cause of my lifelong aversion. I’m not being an asshole when I noticeably wince at your chewing. You’re killing my future babies— how fucking dare you!
Misophonia is like a pair of scratchy jeans that are way too tight on your thighs and crotch but are somehow too big on your waist, rendering you the kind of uncomfortable, unflattered, and self-conscious that ruins an otherwise fine day. Misophonia is nails on the chalkboard in a world that now uses whiteboards and smartboards instead because everyone knows chalkboard sounds are awful. To me, anyone’s mouth or nose, no matter how much I love them, can be a chalkboard.
If my family was the type to exchange gag gifts, I would receive a t-shirt that says something like “Warning: Do Not Chew Loudly.” They are well aware that loud chewing, closed-mouthed or not, subjects them to my death glare if not a full-blown argument. In recent years I’ve tried more and more to make this a running joke instead of ruining dinner, but they can see the rage percolating underneath no matter how I handle it. I still get mad at my mom if she chews while we’re talking on the phone. She’ll say, “I’m not chewing,” and then gulp loudly, as if I am oblivious to the sound just because we’re not sitting at the same table. I’ll tell her she’s chewing directly into the phone and she’ll go, “sorry, I’m done now.” We will either laugh it off or get into an argument about something else because now I’m in a bad mood.
This afternoon I attended a reading that began half an hour late. I arrived on time and surveyed the modest, quiet space with its red carpets, white folding chairs, and single floating shelf supporting a fake pink floral arrangement. My perspective from the mid-back of the room, with my back to the windows and door, was one of a liminal space. I couldn’t decide whether it felt more like the backrooms or a deleted scene from The Virgin Suicides. As people trickled in, it began to resemble a funeral populated by blunt bobs, septum piercings, and 2000s-style layered outfits. I was excited for an enriching, reflective afternoon of literature, but I soon felt like Ebenezer Scrooge watching the world from the ether before descending into hell. Another t-shirt idea: I Went to a Reading and All I Got Was This Misophonia Hellscape.
My death knell tolled when the chatter dwindled, the reading began, and I became acutely aware of the loud breathing beside me. The culprit was the man to my right, who had a boyish face and sandy blonde hair. That is to say he appeared somewhat innocent, so I felt guilty directing my anger toward him. I normally have no problem directing the death stare toward strangers because a lot of them deserve it, but the Los Angeles literary community is small and I don’t want to prematurely burn bridges over something that I know is objectively stupid, at least to the four in five people who do not have Misophonia. I liked when he laughed. It reminded me of his humanity and momentarily paused his heavy breathing. Maybe he had allergies, or maybe he just went on a breathwork retreat, as many LA transplants are wont to do.
I held my hand to my right ear in order to muffle his breathing sounds without committing a crime. I tried to pass it off like I was just listening to the readers pensively. In my defense, I really was trying to, but then he started cracking his knuckles every three to five minutes. I knew it would not cease because people who crack their knuckles are not chill about it. I learned this through a former friend with benefits who had a habit of cracking his knuckles during pillow talk. I tried to ignore it until one night, with our fingers entwined, he decided it was cool to crack my knuckles without asking. “Ow!” I called. He was aghast. “You don’t crack your knuckles? I don’t understand how that doesn’t feel good to you.” I also learned that someone who doesn’t understand that what feels good to them may not feel good to you is not the kind of person I should be having sex with.
As if the knuckles and heavy breathing weren’t enough, one of the readers had a habit of hitting her end-consonants abnormally hard. I genuinely loved her writing and she seemed like such a kind, thoughtful person, but the way she overenunciated “it” (and really any word ending in T or D) just really made me want to throw up. This part actually isn’t so much misophonia as it is an ever-turbulent relationship with theatre kids, myself included, whose stage diction bled insufferably into real-life after a high school production of Shrek the Musical. Once she wrapped up I sighed in relief, only for her to take a seat behind me, fuss with crinkly plastic, and ensue snacking. I couldn’t even think, wow, it’s so rude that she’s eating at a reading, because she was one of the readers and clearly knows what she’s doing, and who am I to scoff at her for eating. It’s okay that she’s directly behind me. It’s fine. Think happy thoughts.
I considered leaving between readers, but the blonde-knuckle-breather beside me had long legs and there was zero space to move in front of him without bringing attention to myself. So I suffered in my triangle of misophonic sadness until the end of the reading, intermittently blocking off either ear to save myself from his knuckles and breathing or consonant-girl’s chewing noises. As a cherry on top, knuckle boy began rubbing the pages of his program together, adding a grating scratching loop to my nightmare symphony. By the end I could no longer focus on the reading at all and fixated on his ever-popping knuckles. Between pops he couldn’t stop moving his hands: stretching them, forming shapes that schoolchildren might make on a playground, shouting “look what I can do!” and counting on his fingers for a reason I couldn’t confirm. Maybe he actually was counting down his breaths.
As we applauded the final reader and host, I stood, eager to make my prison break. Knuckle-boy rose slowly and I resisted the urge to plow through him and everyone else in sight. By ordinary happenstance, he bumped into me gently and we made brief eye contact for the first time all afternoon. “Oh, sorry” he said with an annoyingly friendly smile. I just smiled back and responded, “no worries.”