It’s a lifetime condition that can be managed well

A plate of baby carrots. Bright orange spears of pain and misery. Setting: The Shabbos table, as the family awaits a slice of challah to free them to indulge in chewing and chattering. And those micro hairs in my ear, my friend-turned-foe, stand on edge. There are goosebumps on my body. I’m poised for battle, on high alert.

Dare I hope that the carrots will remain forgotten? Nope. A hand reaches out for them. A horrible cacophony of ensuing sounds. It’s overwhelming, I’m drowning. My whole body clenches.

In desperation, I have a brainstorm; if I eat a carrot, I accomplish two things. There will be an internal barrage of sounds to block out the incoming deluge and the carrot supply will run out faster!

That was the first time I tried to defend myself against the unknown monster living in my body — Misophonia.

The first time I encountered the monster was in fourth grade. A seat change. The girl sitting behind me getting over a sniffle, her nasal passage congested, her breath coming our raspy. My internal choir warmed up, instruments and microphones in place. I can’t concentrate with this hissing noise. I’ll ask the teacher to change my seat.