I had no idea why it bothered me so much: the sound of lips smacking, obnoxious popping of gum, public sucking on teeth. My wife now jokes that I’m going to have a difficult time when we finally visit her family in Thailand due to the slurping of soups and curries. Mores vary culture to culture, and I already have enough problems in my own.
I’m not sure when I first heard the term misophonia, but the moment I did, I knew that was me. We can thank the internet for the diagnoses. Chat rooms in the early aughts reassured people they’re not alone in their mania, that of mouth (among other) noises that set us off into a near rage.
I’ve long developed coping habits. I rarely talk about this disorder as I enjoy eating out with friends. Restaurants are generally not that bad, as I train my mind on ambient noise: kitchen clanging, music descending from ceiling speakers, the sound of my own chewing, which serves as a buffer from external sounds.
There are real challenges, however. Part of my career involves editing podcasts—a tough vocation for misophonics. Quiet eating rooms are nearly impossible to endure, if people chew with open mouths, which is unfortunately rather common.
Subways were a real challenge. I never left home without headphones when I lived in New York City. My commute from Jersey City or Brooklyn provided valuable reading time, which demanded ambient music to block out the thousand potential obstructions to my Zen—and I’m not a very Zen person, especially when my nervous system is under attack.
Coping mechanisms have predominantly been the only therapeutic options for misophonics. As this disorder becomes more well known, however, more research is emerging. As Nathanial Scharping writes about the condition in Psyche,
Studies estimate that more than 10 per cent of the population might experience some degree of misophonia, though the severity of symptoms can vary widely. You might get annoyed at certain sounds made by certain people, whereas someone else’s triggers might encompass a broader array of sounds and situations. Though links to other conditions aren’t yet clear, if you have misophonia, you might also be at increased risk of mental health problems, such as anxiety or depression.
I’m not sure how much misophonia played into my long history with anxiety disorder, but it’s not an understatement to say my nervous system is highly sensitive to intrusive sounds and thoughts. This is backed up by research, as Scharping notes.
For a study published in 2017, Kumar and his colleagues scanned the brains of 20 people with misophonia and 22 controls while they listened to an array of sounds, some misophonic triggers and some not. They found distinct patterns of brain activity in the people with misophonia. ‘It wasn’t like any subtle thing,’ Kumar says. ‘[It was] very, very clear.’
Interestingly, more recent research by Kumar found that misophonics with severe symptoms often mimic the person making the sound to alleviate their own internal pressure. I’ve always avoided actions, not mimicked them, so this is new information. I’m not sure if mirroring would help, but as Scharping writes, the action is contextual: it depends on your social relationship with that person.
Here’s one way I avoid: I recently sat in the gym sauna next to a man who, for whatever reason, decided to sip of water every 15-20 seconds. Loudly. At first, I scratched my bald head to make a louder noise in my brain. Effective for a few rounds, though ultimately futile. My only recourse was to leave the sauna. Mimicry wasn’t possible given I didn’t have my water bottle with me, and the social context was a man I didn’t know. Best to sweat less than cause a scene.
While there appears to be neurological components to misophonia, and it seems to begin at an early age (I can’t remember not having it), what really matters is the environmental cues that trigger the sensation. Scharping puts this into context:
With a trigger and an experience linked, your mind can enter a hypervigilance loop that strengthens the association between a sound and a negative experience. Coping strategies you learn during this time, as well as feedback from the environment and the people around you, shape reactions to triggers in the future, setting the stage for misophonia.
Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) is a potential pathway forward for misophonics, though evidence of efficacy has been limited. That said, the possibility of context switching to sounds—relating lip smacking to a soothing activity, for example—is something I’ll look into.
I’ve previously tried another promising technique. Reframing sometimes works: mentally reconsidering why the person is making a triggering noise evokes empathy instead of accusation. I’ve found this helpful in limited doses. If the sound persists, my ability to fend off the distraction weakens. One minute of gum smacking is possible; 10 minutes is another story.
Environment matters; so does timing. Willpower is a limited resource. I’m much less likely to be annoyed in the morning hours than in the evening, when I’m growing tired.
Regardless, I’m glad to see researchers take misophonia seriously. The disorder might be “in our heads,” but that’s where a lot of life is played out across a range of mental habits. We carry our internal world with us wherever we go. The challenge is transitioning to the external world and its endless triggers. The smoother misophonics can segue from one to the other, the better life will be for everyone.
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