If we have ever eaten a meal together, itâs likely Iâve wanted to kill you.
Before you contact the authorities, please let me explain: I am not a serial killer. I suffer from a condition called misophonia, where small sounds such as eating, sniffing or clicking trigger an extreme reaction which â to me, at least â feels like a thousand tiny needles jabbing at my brain.
I grew up in a time when misophonia didnât have a name. When I sat at the far end of the dinner table with my finger firmly planted in one ear, it was a quirk of personality â an odd trait to add to a long list of other odd traits, such as a deep horror of people walking on carpet while wearing rubber thongs and an aversion to synthetic material against the soles of my feet.
For years, I kept my Not Quite Right brain a secret from the world, ashamed of the fury I felt at people for chewing, slurping, sniffling, breathing, existing. It was at odds with the empathic version of myself I desperately wanted to portray. How could I be considered a kind and understanding person when I wanted to smack someone over the head for daring to slurp their tea?
By the age of 20, I had confided in less than a handful of people about my sound sensitivities. Over the subsequent two decades, I stretched that trusted circle to only a handful more. All the while, I endured. I withstood gum chewers and chip crunchers in the workplace. I stoically remained in my assigned cinema seat surrounded by popcorn munchers. I braced myself whenever an actor raised a mug to their lips in a film. I clenched my fists, curled my toes and gritted my teeth; I used headphones, earplugs and my fingers. On one agonising coach trip where my neighbour was intent on working through the entire flavour range of Kettle chips, I resorted to wrapping a jumper around my head. I even survived two years in Japan, where slurping is considered a sign of politeness and I was on the verge of imploding and/or causing a major international incident. Every. Single. Day.
Then, when I was about 40 years old, the internet gave me a gift. On Twitter, someone wrote that they were currently in hell because a colleague was eating an apple at the next desk, and a thousand voices immediately responded in a chorus of agreement. Turns out there was a word for this hell: misophonia. My personality quirk, my shameful secret, had a name. And I was not alone.
I began to come out, slowly at first. I told a few more friends and co-workers, but in passing, like it was no big deal and not something that eroded my very soul.
Then I decided to write about it. I had never read a book with a protagonist ready to punch on at the first hint of smacking lips. And in writing about it, I began to talk about it more, and in talking about it more, I started to liberate myself from my years of suffering in silence (or rather, suffering in sound).
Even before it was out, my book had already resulted in many âaha!â moments in conversations with other people, where theyâve understood something about me, about themselves, or about their loved ones. Over (carefully sipped) coffee at one friendâs house, our conversation helped my friend understand her young daughter, who had that very morning almost flipped the breakfast table because her brother was eating cereal while she was trying to write in a birthday card. I looked at the abandoned birthday card, still sitting on the table, the writing increasingly jagged as the pen dug into the paper, and I felt that young girlâs pain.
However, I also felt hopeful for her, that she would grow up in a world that understood her better. A world that one day might have popcorn-free cinemas and no-eating carriages on trains. A world where nobody would be able to eat an apple in the workplace without written consent by all in attendance. A world where she wouldnât feel as alone as I did.
I sincerely hope that Iâm helping to write this world into being. Because I see you, my fellow misophonics. I see you and I understand you. But I choose not to hear you, as you, no doubt, choose not to hear me.
