The sound of chewing gives me panic attacks

Living with Misophonia

Misophonia, which literally means “hatred of sound”, is a neurological disorder that makes certain sounds intolerable, even though most people may not even notice them.

A trigger causes a “fight or flight” response in the misophone, inducing extreme stress and sometimes pain. Research on it is hardly two decades old and only three years ago was there a proposal to consider it a psychiatric disorder. The majority of the world is still largely in the dark about the condition, so let me tell you my experience.

Some misophones are triggered by the sound of crunching, some by loud breathing, some by a spoon scraping a bowl. For me, it’s the sound of chewing. Really, any loud, wet mouth noise makes me wonder if I can get away with murder.

My earliest memory of misophonia is from when I was six, sitting in the backseat of my mom’s car with my sister. Both of us were eating honeydew and she was chewing loudly (or what seemed loud to me). I don’t remember what I did, but I remember wanting to cry. I remember being too afraid to tell my sister because I knew she would get defensive and yell at me. I remember feeling absolutely helpless. I didn’t understand why no one else noticed.

Me and the demonic sister

My mom’s a doctor and read a paper about misophonia when I was ten – she was the first one to identify my problem. I remember yelling at her and attempting to refute the logic.

I didn’t like being different, so I didn’t tell people. I would avoid social situations because my fear of other people chewing was so intense, it was better to just not have friends.

It took me two years to accept the diagnosis.

When I was twelve, I started doing research myself. I would judge people, not based on how they dressed or what they said, but on how loudly they would chew.

Everything came to a head during my semester in Israel when I was 15. My roommate was a loud chewer, so for the first month we didn’t get along, simply because I was too afraid to tell her. While I was there, I discovered a friend’s sister has misophonia – she announced it after I shared my story with the group, and it was liberating to realize I’m not the only one.

The roommates having fun

Towards the end of high school, I started to tell some of my friends at home. I did research, trying to figure out what was wrong with my brain, and I made up a song for my little brother so that he would remember to chew with his mouth closed, because the sound isn’t as loud then.

My closest friends and family now know and are careful around me, but I still barely tolerate the rest of the world. I have one friend who describes it as “nails on a chalkboard” for me. She’s not completely wrong, but it’s more like nails on a chalkboard with a microphone that surround me – it never stops, and my brain is the chalkboard.

Photo creds to my fellow misophone

Last year, I took a gap year in Israel. There are so many things about that year that I’ll never forget, but one thing that stands out is not only meeting, but being friends with another misophone. The girls on my program were deciding roommates for the second half of the year, and with an immense leap of courage, I told an entire room of girls that I have misophonia. I’d never told a group of people that large in my life, and it shocked me that the words came out of my mouth.

What shocked my even more was when someone responded, “me too!” and needless to say, we became fast friends. She couldn’t tolerate chewing or loud breathing. We also had two other roommates who were understanding and respectful of our triggers, but it was the first time in my life that I wasn’t alone. I could talk about why I was so irritated and someone actually understood.

I now go to Bucknell University, and I’m more aware than ever of how much misophonia has affected me. Every time I walk into a classroom, I choose my seat based on who’s chewing gum or eating food. It’s not that I pick my friends based on their chewing habits, but I can’t deny that’s a part of it.

I have to leave social situations when there’s too much chewing and I can’t focus in class when people are chewing gum. If someone in a classroom is chewing gum, I can tell you exactly where they are.

This past weekend, I went on a camping trip with everyone in my hall and the hall across from us. We were playing cards in the afternoon, and someone handed out protein bars. Everyone took one except for me. The person sitting next to me was a particularly loud chewer, and I prepared for the worst. I had two options. I could pretend I had to go to the bathroom and take and wait it out, or I could sit through it. I chose the latter.

Everyone started eating at once, and the world started spinning. For a few seconds, I forgot where I was or what was happening. I couldn’t see straight and all I could hear was the chewing. People thought I forgot what to do in the card game, so they laughed, which brought me back to reality. I continued to play, but had to spend the rest of the evening alone, sitting outside while everyone talked and played inside, trying to get the sound out of my head.

Me, living life to the fullest

It’s never ending in some ways. Two nights ago, my hall had movie night in our common room and our RA provided pizza. I went in, knowing that I would have to take a few deep breaths and try to focus on the movie, rather than the mouth noises. Five minutes into the movie, I had reflexively flinched ten times because of a sudden chewing noise that was sharper than the rest, so I moved to the back of the room, because sound travels forwards.

Sitting in the back, I swore to myself I would sit through the movie. I told myself that if I concentrated on something else, I didn’t have to be antisocial, for once in my life. I stayed, and my anxiety grew. I still didn’t leave, because I needed to not be different. But I stayed too long. With the sound of chewing echoing in my ears, I ran into my room and had a panic attack.

I sat on the floor, shaking, sobbing and hyperventilating. I started to get light headed from hyperventilating and still couldn’t calm down.

That was when I realized a few things that I should have realized long ago. I didn’t have anyone I knew within a two-hundred mile radius who understood or who I could talk to. I was completely alone. I couldn’t tell people, because If that was their first experience with misophonia, that’s how I would be defined. No one knew.

Sitting through classes and tests and not being able to concentrate is not an option. Having to leave social situations and not be able to tolerate people is not an option. I need to fix it. I know I’m not alone.

A 2014 study published data that approximately 20% of people are affected by misophonia, at least to some extent (although all participants in the study were doing it for extra credit for a psych class).

My misophonia is severe, but in a lecture of a hundred when the professor is chewing gum, I know that nineteen other people are thinking along the same lines as me: “Is it possible to impale someone on a pencil?”

If 20% of people are affected on some level, and 10% report it being a significant problem in school, why have I only met two other people who struggle with it? There are probably people in my life who are affected, but they haven’t told me because I haven’t told them, and because this disorder is so unknown, some people in my life probably suffer, but don’t know why.

Misophonia isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to me. It doesn’t define me and it doesn’t control me.

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