Monomania

If you know me even remotely well, you know I suffer from a crippling affliction. There might be a fancy word for it in some psychological disorders manual. There may even be treatment. But I wouldn't know because just thinking about the affliction makes every inch of my body twitch with disgust.

Simply put, I am hypersensitive to a select category of environmental stimuli. It isn't sensory specific. In fact, the only one of my senses it does not seem to affect is my sense of taste. Seriously.  I can and will eat just about anything. Aside from that, I am an equal opportunity afflictee.

I hesitate to tell you this in case you decide you don't want to hang out with me anymore. I have to let you know that it does not always produce the same effect in me, and sometimes I am quite good at ignoring the problem. But at other times, it sneaks up on me. It starts as a minor disturbance in the force: I notice something. A noise. Especially a noise that is repeated. And then I can't stop noticing it. And before I know it, I can't tune it out, can't concentrate on anything else, can't hear what is happening around me. I am consumed, in a monomaniacal attack of Dostoyevskyan proportion.

It almost always starts as an auditory affliction. A pop of the gum. A squish of food in the  mouth. Any and all chewing, slurping, snorting, sniffling, loud talking, foot tapping, pencil pouncing, pen clicking, dry mouth smacking, foot shuffling, nose breathing, mouth breathing, water dripping, cat meowing, kazoo playing, dental floss flicking, nail clipping... And then it morphs. I can't stand to hear it. Can't stand to see it. Can't stand to smell it (the smell of a freshly chewed piece of gum makes we want to vomit). I equally detest the feel of certain items on my hands: silk that snags; berber carpeting, paper towels, and the eraser I use every day to clean my chalk board.

This isn't a recent problem. It goes way, way back. And I mean way back: sitting at the breakfast table with Brian and Jared, before school, early 80's. Cereal crunching and milk slurping. Vomit. My mother tells me that I had to do my braids until they were just perfect. That the ribbing in my socks had to line up straight. That I couldn't stand to have a single wrinkle of my shirt touch my skin when tucked into my pants. That I never ran across the yard, but rather followed the sidewalks, the cross walks, the driveways. The universe had an order, and I couldn't bear to see it undone.

I am starting to see this emerge in Bela. She's impossible to dress. Socks touch, armholes bother, sleeve elastic annoys, waistbands cause meltdowns, shoes aren't tight enough, tights are too tight. And she's starting to remind everyone that it is "mean" manners to eat loudly. "Mom, Mae is chewing with her mouth open and it's gross."

Is there any hope for her? This is not an easy burden to bear. I have been known to leave movies because I can't escape the sound of popcorn being munched too aggressively. Finish exams early because the guy next to me is sniffling. Yell at my husband because he flosses too close to me. Will she emerge from her childhood as a dysfunctional adult? Crippled by her sensitivities?

I'm not worried about Mae. She chews with her mouth open, wears wet underwear for hours at a time, farts audibly, hacks and clears her throat with gusto, and talks at incredibly loud levels. She's going to be just fine. But what hope is there for Bela and me in a world such as ours?

By the way, I was inspired to write today's blog by a snot snorting skateboarding dude taking an exam in one of my classes this afternoon. And I happen to be writing this entry while sniffling away the remains of a two week old cold and chewing my gum with my mouth open. Let's face it. It's only you all that annoy me. I'm pretty ok with myself.