Misophonia: When Certain Sounds Can Physically Hurt and Drive You Crazy

I Offer My Opinion and Observations Not as a Medical Professional but as One of the Afflicted

Video: Kimba, my furry boy and locomotive, at 5 years old in 2017, Taos County, New Mexico.¹ In 2014 I sprung him from Folsom prison, where he’d languished for 6 months. He still pants like this at age 11.5. My Chi-Corgi, Midget, who showed up later in 2017, was brought to us by a gray male pit bull a month before her first heat. (Dogs are smart like that. He knew the large males would’ve decimated her small self.)

I surmised Midge was raised by a certain pack of strays on the west mesa, where we lived. My up-the-hill neighbors said they’d seen Midget and the gray bull running together many times. I had not, but I did recognize the male.

Unfortunately, given that Kim’s been Midge’s only role model for a long time, she thinks she should emulate him—instead of being her genuine, quiet self—to win my favor or otherwise ingratiate herself. So when Kim starts panting and gets my attention, not in a good way, Midge starts panting, too.

Why, Jesus, why? MAKE. IT. STOP!

Lest you think I exaggerate: I. DO. NOT.

So what the hell is misophonia, anyway?

I’ll define it according to my experience: Misophonia is a disorder in which certain repetitive sounds trigger pain and intolerance in the body and brain of the person tormented by this barely controllable aberration.

You know how people put their ear up to a loved one’s heart and puppies feel secure when they hear their mother’s heartbeat?

Yeah, not me. I pray for hearts dear to me to keep beating, but please don’t force me to listen to them. And certainly not through a stethoscope!

To be in the presence of snorers is to pay a HUGE karmic debt. As it is for the snorer, on whose shoulder I might land an angry punch (after a warning to be quiet). And my penance for the era of dating manly construction tradesmen all around me on the Jersey City waterfront was to be tormented at times by the metallic, literally brain-rattling, incessant pound of the pile driver.

Do NOT tell me “it’s not real” or to “suck it up” or try to make me think I’m nuts.

We, the misophonic, don’t need a scientific study² to tell us that the connection between our auditory function and limbic system is out of whack. We can FEEL it. Just try making one of the repetitive trigger sounds around me, and you’ll wonder where otherwise kindly and nerdly Phooey G. went.

My chest gets tight, my heart starts pounding, my blood pressure rises (I can feel it in my ears), I feel hot, I hurt all over, and my irritation will turn to anger if I can’t snuff out the noise or leave the premises. I will punch you (as my friend Francis S. can tell you from having shared a motel room on several road trips in years past)—and if you have sleep apnea, you’re really in for a treat from my reactions (sorry Woodz, my only and favorite nephew and favorite sentient being).

When I used to have to ride the NYC subway and the PATH train, there were times I’d stand over an inconsiderate gum snapper and tell her (never saw a male snapper) in no uncertain terms, with my most frightening Scorpio-rising look, to SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. Or I would make her swallow that gum. Even when I was a petite³ size 2 (“Those were the days, my friend . . .”), I could be intimidating. It was all the inner energy, roiled up, that people could feel emanating from me.

I’m amazed I never got shot.

So you could tell me to suck it up, but I can’t, as in for as much as I would want to, I’m incapable of doing so because . . .

MY RESPONSE IS AUTONOMIC!

The saving grace about misophonia, speaking for myself, is that it is not a constant factor. There are many stretches of relief. And as I’ve lived longer, I’ve learned how to tamp down my reactions. Not easy. Not always possible.

So now you know why your friend, a loved one, or a stranger glares at you while you’re crunching, mouth breathing, clicking, or tapping.

Have mercy.

1. No, the seat-belt dinging didn’t and doesn’t bother me. If I can find a reputable medical team, one that is independent, not affiliated with the government, the CDC, the WHO, the FDA, etc., who recognized the bioweapon for what it is and refused to dispense it, I will happily will my corpse to them so that they can study my brain and limbic system and maybe find out why only certain sounds are physical triggers or what causes the disorder.

2. Kumar et al., “The Brain Basis for Misophonia,” Current Biology 27, no. 4 (February 2, 2017): 527–33. The Brain Basis for Misophonia

3. My hips are made for dying in childbirth. A silversmith in Terlingua, Texas, called my wrists child-sized and a cousin once called me chicken legs. It’s hard to let go of having floated around as a could-be spinner (or so I was told when I worked in a pub in Jersey City). And I miss not being traumatized in a clothing store. It was a great 15 years while it lasted. I’m grateful for that much!