Unless you’ve been hiding, with earplugs in, glaring at anyone who dares to eat or breathe within your auditory radius, you’ve probably heard of misophonia by now. And if you have been hiding, with earplugs in, glaring at anyone who dares to eat or breathe within your auditory radius, keep reading. This probably applies to you. Maybe keep the earplugs in for now.
Reading about misophonia for the first time in 2011 gave me a name for my many years of emotionally explosive experiences: age 10, throwing my brother’s donut in the bin at Disneyland because he refused to eat it quietly; as a teenager, hiding my friend’s ticking alarm clock at a sleepover and waking to muffled beeps and a confused friend rifling through drawers, and who still believes she moved it in her sleep; during my undergrad years, perfecting my Lecture Theatre Glare (less furrowed than my Cinema Glare) at nearby talkers/eaters/pen clickers, and seating myself well away from the front few rows of laptops and whirring of tape recorders (yes, I am from the microgeneration of people who went to university at the only time in history when these two pieces of equipment were used side by side); moving in with my husband after 3 years long-distance, gazing into his eyes and asking, “did you always breathe this loudly?”.