She’ll say the rule is no changes before a week, try to get used to your seat.

I’ll explain that my friend’s breathing ticks me off and makes me see stars.

She’ll think you’re crazy.

I’ll make up a story/ I’ll be honest/ I am crazy.

Just don’t listen to her, focus on the teacher.

I can’t hear the teacher, all I hear is a tinny sound many decibels below the teacher’s voice.

Yes, you are crazy!

Life moved on, I graduated, got married, and after my first two children were born I went to school for a degree as an occupational therapy assistant. Through it all, the monster accompanied me, a part of myself I tried to bury in shame.

As part of my coursework, I was exposed to the world of sensory processing disorders, which often manifest as extreme responses to everyday stimuli. Slowly, my understanding shifted to include the brain’s role in integrating sensory input, and how differently wired people respond with extreme reactions. Post-graduation, continuing education courses provided additional information on various conditions linked to the struggling children I was working with.

When my children hummed in my surroundings, I’d be completely thrown off balance. The noise would provoke a whirlpool of thoughts and prayers so tumultuous it would confuse me.

Hashem, make her stop humming.

She’s in a good mood, humming is a positive reflection of that.

Hashem, make her leave the room. Hashem, make this stop bothering me! If I would surrender to the rage filling me right now, I would be ashamed of my behavior. Will she realize that this is hard for me?

You should want her to feel safe and comfortable, this is her house!

Should I leave the room?

No, you’re a big girl and you can handle this!

Nope, I can’t. I’ll ask her to stop singing.

That is ridiculous, you are the adult here, pull it together.

Okay, what is this really about??

Following this intense awareness of my thoughts, body sensations, and emotions, I was ready for the next step of healing. The million-dollar question: Why? Why was a seemingly innocent and otherwise innocuous noise causing me such an intense emotional and physical reaction?

The first breakthrough came through the deafening roar of a congested respiratory system. Some might call it nasal breathing. The screeching soprano in my head said, You must be crazy, no one else here is bothered by this. The voice felt familiar, like an old pesky friend. And then I did the brave thing. I asked the voice for answers.

Cue drumrolls and a crescendo of realization. I wasn’t crazy. I was suffering from a condition I was embarrassed to describe, that I had no language to explain.

Misophonia. I have misophonia.

Misophonia refers to strong and negative emotional and physiological reactions to sounds that most people don’t notice, such as chewing or breathing. Research indicates that misophonia may affect approximately one in five people during their lifetime. As of yet, there are no official diagnostic criteria, and it’s not included in the DSM-5, so it can’t be professionally diagnosed.

My unique cocktail of aggravating sounds includes heavy nasal breathing, humming, and the common trigger of chewing noises. Exposure to sounds like these put me in a physical and emotional tizzy. My facial muscles tense, I feel intense anger and complete dysregulation.

Having a name for my condition was soothing. Reading about the signs and symptoms of misophonia, which include irrational anger, irritation, disgust directed toward the individual making the sounds, increased heart rate, and physical avoidance of the stimuli, was like a balm of validation. But the symptoms persisted.

It’s a lifetime condition that can be managed well. Symptoms peak during times of stress, such as tiredness and emotional upheaval.

Misophonia taught me to listen to my internal voices, usually not very complimentary in nature, which I can then challenge and change. Misophonia propels me to regulate, evaluate, develop, and improve. I may not be consciously aware of a stressor simmering beneath the surface, such as rumblings of worry or feelings of inadequacy, until a flare-up, which forces me to check in and settle those emotions. In the moment, triggers are physically and emotionally painful; however in hindsight, I can pinpoint inner conflicts that were resolved, which otherwise I may have ignored while they festered and intensified.

Fast-forward to the contrast of a current-day Shabbos meal. The unknown monster has a name. It’s an invisible condition affecting the way I process sounds. My family is aware of it. They try not to think I’m crazy. They try not to blame themselves. I may respectfully request that my family chew with closed mouths. I know to preempt a temper frenzy by going out of the room when a child is crunching on potato chips; if that’s not possible they can even understand if I ask them to eat somewhere else.

I know the importance of being somewhat rested, caffeinated, and minimally fed before family meals in order to maintain equilibrium. Seating accommodations are made to ensure my comfort and space. I don’t like this, I prefer to enjoy the meal like a grown adult without looking for reasonable excuses to be away from the table at certain courses, nevertheless I have graciously (most of the time) accepted my reality.

And yet I’m empowered to take responsibility. I no longer blame others for being inconsiderate. I sense physiological stressors early and use the tools I’ve learned to regulate myself before I’m too far gone. I’m healing and dealing.

Please never tell a child with misophonia:

“Your brother isn’t slurping his soup that loudly, everyone else around the table is fine.”

The experience is REAL. When a child falls, brushing it away with “nothing happened” (unless bones have been shattered or teeth have been knocked out) may undermine the child’s ability to accept their ordeal as real and painful. So, too, dismissing a child’s pain at sounds that aggravate them may make them doubt their sensation and hey, possibly even their sanity.

Please do tell your child:

“You can do this.” Empower, empower, empower. Learn strategies for coping with this and try them out together such as taking a break and leaving the room for a few minutes, wearing earbuds temporarily, turning on full-volume background music, addressing and reframing unwanted thoughts utilizing CBT techniques. Despite research showing misophonia has no definite known cure, these strategies CAN help overcome the challenges associated with it.

“Speak up and ask for help if you need it.”

Give your child courage and confidence to ask for accommodations and acceptance.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 912)