Reflecting on How I Used to Survive with Misophonia
I used to suffer from misophonia — not just the kind that made life a little uncomfortable, but the kind that was completely, utterly debilitating.
When I say I used to “suffer,” I mean it. I had the kind of misophonia where, at my worst, I would hide in a public restroom for over an hour while my family sat together at a dinner table. I must have been around ten years old when I started doing this. It was around 2010, and smartphones barely existed. My parents didn’t have them, and I certainly didn’t either. So, when I sat alone in the restroom of a restaurant, I really was alone — in silence, yes, but finally free from those dreadful sounds of chewing, smacking, and slurping.
I remember vividly sitting in a local Mexican restaurant once. I was in the handicap stall for what must have been a couple of hours. I sat still on the toilet, covering the seat in toilet paper to protect myself from whatever germs might be there. I sat quietly, praying to whoever might be listening: Please, just let me be normal. I’d get up occasionally when my legs fell asleep. I even remember seeing a roach crawl out from a dark hiding spot and feeling disgusted that I had to share a space with it.
Nevertheless, like I was used to, I waited for the moment my brother or my dad would come in and tell me it was safe — that they were done eating and I could come out. I was at their mercy to rejoin the world.
At the time, I thought I was just making the best of a bad situation. But now, looking back, I feel so much for that young boy. He wasn’t avoiding life. He was just trying to survive it.
Choosing Isolation Over Outbursts
So, what were my options?
I could sit at the dinner table with headphones, earplugs, or other coping strategies and risk something going wrong — or I could avoid the situation altogether. Because if something did go wrong — if the headphones died, if the earplugs weren’t enough — I knew exactly what could happen. And I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to lose control.
I wanted so badly not to make a scene. The idea of crying or yelling at a restaurant table — even as a kid, in front of strangers and my own family — was humiliating. So, I made the choice that felt safest. I avoided everything. I hid.
It was lonely. It was exhausting. But in those moments, it felt like the only way to get through the day.
I stayed in public restrooms for hours. I sat in hot cars alone. I missed meals. I skipped birthday parties, holidays, and family gatherings. And yeah, people asked questions about where I was — why I disappeared. But the alternative felt worse. So much worse.
It wasn’t sustainable. But it worked… until it didn’t.
Coping When I Couldn’t Hide
Eventually, there were situations I couldn’t avoid — events that mattered, ones where I had to show up. Sometimes, they were even for me. So, I adapted. I got creative. I slowly developed a toolkit of strategies to get through meals and social gatherings.
Some of them worked better in certain situations than others. But all of them were born out of desperation.
Covering my ears: I’d shove my fingers into my ears as tightly as possible. If that wasn’t an option, I’d cross one arm over my head and plug the opposite ear using the crook of my elbow, while covering the other with my hand. It was awkward. It was obvious. But sometimes, it helped.
Making noise on purpose: I’d rub my finger inside my ear to create a loud friction sound. It was strange, sure, but it gave me something to focus on — something that could drown out everything else.
Earplugs: I used heavy-duty ones — the kind people wear at shooting ranges. They helped, but only in very loud environments, and only if I could sit far enough from my biggest triggers (usually, the sounds my brother made). It wasn’t perfect, but it took the edge off.
Headphones: These were useful — until they weren’t. Back then, noise-canceling tech wasn’t what it is today. I used a bulky Sony portable DVD player, and if it died mid-meal, I was in trouble. Even a few seconds of silence in a movie could expose me to a trigger.
Talking: This one might surprise people, but it worked. By talking, I could fill my own head with noise. It gave me something to concentrate on, and it distracted me from the sounds I couldn’t bear.
Looking back, all these things — the avoiding, the devices, the distractions — were just me doing whatever I could to get by. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t functional. But I did what I had to do.
From ages six to thirteen, this was my reality. And though I’ve come a long way since then, I haven’t forgotten what it was like to live in that kind of fear — fear of a dinner table, fear of a breath, fear of a sound no one else even noticed.
This was my version of survival.
And if you’re reading this, and any of it sounds familiar — I see you. I feel for you. I was you.