The National Institute of Health defines Misophonia as “a disorder of decreased tolerance to specific sounds”. This ‘decreased tolerance’ often presents as irrational and extreme reactions to certain trigger sounds, most commonly loud chewing, slurping, and sniffing.
I was ten years old when I first started recognising my Misophonia. My sister and dad happily shared a bag of Haribos on the sofa when I stormed off, tears in my eyes, to sit on the stairs to escape the sound of their chewing. A natural, daily, and necessary sound that my brain somehow registered as a threat. It became one of my ‘quirks’ – you can’t eat around Alice, she just doesn’t like it.
‘I wanted to scream, lash out, tear at my hair’
What people couldn’t see was what I tried so hard to mask. It was a feeling I could never put words to – how do you justify a meltdown because of a quiet, simple sound? Someone sitting next to me with a packet of peanuts would set my brain on fire. I wanted to scream, lash out, tear at my hair; instead, I would quietly pick myself up and hide away in my room in a confused state of fight or flight.
Often, this masking would reduce me to tears and panic attacks. It was only when I was around 16-years-old that I saw an Instagram reel describing the condition of ‘Misophonia’, and I realised that I wasn’t alone, that it wasn’t just a funny quirk – my brain was wired differently.
When I hear someone eating, all other sounds cease to be. My brain (unhelpfully) narrows around that noise as if it poses a threat. Focus on anything else around me is lost. I lose the plot of the film, my train of thought, the thread of conversation. Fight or flight is activated in my head – nothing else can exist. Panic, anger, or fear drives me to solitude in an attempt to protect myself from this perceived ‘threat’.
It sounds ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous – that’s why it’s so hard to communicate. You can’t ask someone to go hungry because you don’t like the sound. It’s not practical, it’s not sociable, and it’s not how you make friends. So I’ve spent my life leaving rooms, making excuses, and crying quietly. Cinemas remain a struggle – a quiet room full of people eating snacks? Get me out. You’ll never see me on a bus without headphones in case someone dares eat a cereal bar. Maybe you’ll spot me with a finger subtly covering my ear, shooting daggers at a child with a packet of crisps.
Coping with Misophonia
In recent years, I’ve become better at hiding it. A pair of lifesaving loops remain in my bag 24/7 – these are popular with neurodivergent folk with sensory issues. You can read more Brig’s exploration of hidden sensory issues here. My loops allow me to engage whilst quietening the trigger noise. They are subtle, effective, and easy to take with me.
I’ve learnt that if I’m also eating, I don’t react, so I time my snacking and meals with other people. Why does this happen? I do not know. I may not understand why it happens, but I know me, and I know what sets me off and how I can manage those emotions.
Misophonia is a growing area of research and awareness, and there are increasing resources out there for people who struggle like me. It is a journey that may never end, but it’s a journey that is important to share.
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Journalism student at the University of Stirling & BRAW Magazine editor 24/25 and 25/26 🙂
You can see my portfolio here: https://www.clippings.me/alicepollard
Hi Alice, thank you for your story. I also suffer from Misophonia. Since the age of 5, hearing my mother eating was incredibly uncomfortable. I try to time my eating with others, it’s not as bad if I’m eating also. I’ve been dealing with it for a long 60 years and I’m still waiting for that wonder drug that makes the sound of someone eating bearable.