When people look at me, they may notice how I throw my head back while I laugh. They may note that even though I rotate between my two favorite pairs of shoes, my outfits are always cohesive and put together. I hope they notice that my eyelashes look full and long. They likely recognize that I almost always have at least one AirPod in my ear.

When people look at me, they don’t see “mentally ill.” Regardless, the perception of normality that one may use to describe me doesn’t stop my eyes from watering or my cheeks from flushing pink as I’m sitting at my family’s dinner table. Others’ preconceived ideas of me can’t refute the fact that with every clink of a fork or crunch of salad, my heart begins to race and my knee starts to bounce. 

It’s normal to be annoyed with the sound of your own family members chewing, but it is absurd to want to curse or yell upon hearing the sound of high heel shoes clicking on linoleum or the sound of a sick classmate blowing their nose. It’s illogical to cry over the crashing of the dishwasher being unloaded, and especially the sound of a parent snoring. 

When I was in eighth grade, the way I responded to my environment began to change. Something was wrong with me, and I couldn’t comprehend what it was. One day, after I had turned hysterical upon hearing my mom clear her throat, I frantically searched “why do I hate certain sounds.” Through my tears, I saw the top result: misophonia. “The hatred of sound.” 

People who suffer from misophonia experience a fight or flight reaction when they hear specific “trigger” noises. A noise as minuscule as someone sniffling across the room may make you want to scream, sob, or punch the wall. This disorder often comes coupled with other mental illnesses, such as depression or anxiety, and recent research has noted a correlation with autism. 

On one hand, I was relieved that I wasn’t just going crazy-- my distraughtness had a name and definition, and other people could relate to what I was going through.

Mostly, this result left me defeated. I felt pathetic, mainly because I knew that no one was going to believe me, or even if they did, they wouldn’t know what to do about it.

And that continued to be the case. I have gotten into countless arguments regarding my mental disorder because my parents can’t control the sounds that they make, but I can’t control my reaction to them. I end up spending any time I have at home in my room. 

Some of my best friends don’t even pretend to attempt to see life from my perspective, or even acknowledge that it is a real disorder at all. Several people I’ve been honest with about my disorder dismiss my feelings and ridicule the way that I act. 

Every time I step into the hallway to take a test, I wonder if my peers are questioning my reason for doing so. It causes a disturbance after all-- plastic wheels roaring as they're pushed across the floor, desks creaking as I clumsily shove them out the door. Every time I begin to answer the assessment’s questions, I remember my 10th grade PSAT: the tears forming, the escape to the bathroom, the pleading to let me resume my test in a different room (to no avail), all because a classmate couldn’t blow their nose before the test started.

The hallways are always filled with a slight energy: the friends skipping class together, the teachers taking their daily post-lunch stroll, and the constant students walking to and from the bathrooms. Despite this, the hallways always grant me a sense of calmness. There is no one sniffling or coughing, no one's leg bouncing but my own. Every time I check the grade book and see boast-worthy scores, I thank the hallways for their aid in my performance.

Quiet classrooms are my least favorite. The absence of noise other than the soft hum of the air conditioning does not motivate me to do my best, nor inspire me to get my work done. Rather, as the sound of a lively classroom dies down, I find my chest tightening. My mind becomes especially attuned to any sound that a classmate makes. My feet start tapping around as my knee bounces up and down. I repeatedly try to crack my knuckles to no avail. My fingers start looking for anything to fidget with, from rings to pencils, until I ultimately end up with my bright yellow AirPod case in my hands. I put my AirPods into my ears and turn up music to escape the distracting sounds. 

I bought AirPods to make my condition easier to deal with. I don’t like my AirPods because they were a materialistic purchase; I don't wear them to be disrespectful to my teachers. I have them in all the time because the sound of music in my ear is the only thing that can keep me grounded in reality. Bass in my ears paired with a beautiful melody is the single solution to dull the sounds that my brain has trained me to loathe.

My entire life has been turned upside down as a result of my misophonia. I hate going to movies because of the crunching of popcorn or the possibility of a heavy breather sitting around me. I will never willingly go out to eat, as to avoid the clashing of plates and inevitable chewing. I can’t sleep through the night because I wake up to snoring through bedroom walls. Allergy season makes school insufferable for me. This year, I feared I was going to have to go online because classrooms stuffed with sick kids seemed impossible to face.

I’ve told some of my teachers about how I can’t sit near someone who eats during class. I’ve been told to “tell them to stop,” but that’s the issue-- I’m not going to make other people adjust what they’re doing to accommodate me; it’s not their responsibility. I am not going to confront someone for being hungry during class, or even having a runny nose. This disorder has locked me in a jail, confining me to either disrupt the completely normal actions of others or to live in distress.

Misophonia has affected my life daily for a little over three years. It has attached itself to my identity and stripped me of any sense of relaxation I once had. More often than not, I find myself resorting to isolation.

There is no cure for misophonia. In fact, studies have shown-- and my own experience has proven-- that the disorder only gets worse over time. I live every day of my life on edge, knowing that I truly don't have a safe space; there is no silent state I can escape to and it's only a matter of time before nearly every sound causes my throat to close and my fists to clench. Even so, I live with my AirPods in my ears and their case in my pocket. This minuscule pair of white, dented plastic and technology has offered me a solution; a sense of stability. They remind me that it is possible to exist in a state of discomfort even if you need an aide.  

Maybe one day, I’ll be able to live my life without crumbling upon hearing a trigger noise. Until then, I will cherish the earbuds that not only help to complete my signature “look”, but have also helped me cope with some of the hardest moments that my misophonia has put me through.