I’d like to think I have a pretty good temperament, probably to a fault. It takes a lot to ruffle my feathers—and even once you do, I’m probably not going to say anything about it because I am a wuss who is terrified of getting yelled at. Instead, I will bury that pain deep down inside and assure you that I am fine. Is this an issue that affects my relationships on a very deep and damaging level, and is probably something I should address? Maybe, but whatever.
But my lack of confrontation skills really only bother me when it comes to one thing: whistling. How I wish that I could tell everyone who whistles to kindly shove it. I wish I could tell them that the minute they inhale in preparation for song, my body goes into panic mode. My heart races. My palms sweat. My brain throbs against my skull, begging the painful, unwelcome, seizure-inducing noise to get the hell out of my ear canal. My hatred for your happy-go-lucky devil noises cannot be underestimated.
I guess I’m looking for some help. I can’t just go around kicking strangers in the stomach, even though that’s what I envision doing to anyone who has ever dared breathe a tune within my earshot. I can’t even really be nice about it either, can I? What kind of asshole asks someone to please stop whistling because it makes them want to gouge their eyes out with the nearest sharp object? Only a psychopath, presumably. Do I need to go to therapy? Are there forms of meditation or medication that calm you from a whistle-induced rage?
It can happen any time, in any place, by any person. I have stared down the faces of many a New York subway-goer with the look of a thousand sharp knives, but that’s pretty ineffective. Every New Yorker has death in their eyes, and I am no different. I am at constant, silent war with a coworker who stands outside of my office whistling the day away, while I writhe in pain and blast Spotify into my victimized ears. It once ruined a relationship with a high school boyfriend who used his admittedly impressive whistle range as a torture device. My brain is a prison.
Of course, it’s not just whistling. Thanks to my sound-sensitive mom, I despise every single noise another person can produce. You name it, I hate you for it. Snoring, chewing, snapping your gum, BITING YOUR NAILS, cracking your knuckles, breathing through your mouth, fidgeting your feet, clearing your throat. My mom cannot tolerate these tiny, unnecessary noises, and therefore brought my attention to them. My mother is a savage. Same, apparently.
But nothing gets me like whistling does. I’ve been told that this might be a form of Misophonia (re: fear of sound), in which case I am most certainly a psychopath and am likely to die a slow and painful death via small noises. But giving my hatred a title doesn’t make it go away. It doesn’t make me any less fearful. I am in constant pain, afraid of going out into the world for fear that someone might blow air out of their mouths in a high-pitched tone.
Are you there, world? It’s me, Christine. Please stop whistling, or please send help in the form of killer headphones..
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