The neurophysiological disorder is characterized by a severe aversion to sound—and the struggle to convince others of the severity of that a
I want to kiss The New Yorker for this piece. I have a “mild” case of misophonia that has veered more toward moderate ever since my bipolar diagnosis, enough that I own three different pairs of noise-canceling headphones and never leave the house without a fully charged set of cans. I also keep both foam and Loop earplugs on me at all times for different gradations of “the ambient noise here is upsetting enough to require dampening but I don’t need to blast rock ‘n’ roll, electronica, jazz, or brown noise to tame my fury.”
I feel fortunate in that most eating sounds for me are tolerable (I can enjoy restaurants and dinner with friends!), and noisy breathing is case-by-case. Usually, if I’m not trying to sleep, I can deal with it. Cold and flu season drive me batshit crazy because I hate all the sniffling and throat-clearing. Dogs barking make me want to kill the dog owner followed by myself.
As a music lover who is known to stand front and center at rock concerts without earplugs (don’t yell at me I’ve gotten much better at being responsible lately!!!), communicating the suffering associated with this condition is impossible. “But you subject yourself to such loud noises willingly and regularly!” Yeah, I know. I suspect that whatever part of the neurological machinery that makes me so breathtakingly sensitive, so rapturously responsive to organized sound is also responsible for my frantic and hateful aversion to random, environmental sound. The only music I find categorically repellent is death metal and bluegrass. 99% of the songs I encounter in my daily life register emotionally from Neutral-Mildly Positive to Ecstatic Joy. And then if a guy coughs on the Metro North in the wrong way, I want to scream in despair.
