In 2020, I wrote a blog called We all know them.
It was about people who eat loudly.
Or, more accurately, about my lifelong struggle not to commit a felony because someone decided a bag of chips needed to be experienced by the entire room.
I had already been dealing with this for more than twenty years.
Chewing.
Slurping.
Tongues doing things tongues should absolutely be able to do silently.
People somehow needing an unreasonable amount of oxygen to finish breakfast.
I thought I knew my enemy.
I did not.
Because apparently, I can hear you drink now.
This is new.
And I blame carnivore.
Not scientifically. Calm down.
I’m not claiming ribeye has given me supernatural hearing. I’m simply telling you what happened to me.
Since changing the way I eat, everything has become sharper. My head feels clearer, my senses feel sharper and somewhere along the way it feels like somebody removed a filter between me and the rest of humanity.
Which sounds wonderful.
Until you work in an office.
Because do you have ANY idea how much noise some people make while drinking?
I do.
Now.
The sip.
The swallow.
The tiny bit of air that apparently needs to accompany it.
The little ahhh afterwards.
WHY?
You drank water, Susan.
You didn’t cross the Sahara.
And the strange thing about misophonia is that I know perfectly well how ridiculous this sounds.
I’m a functioning adult.
I have a job.
I have children.
I pay bills.
I can sit in a meeting looking completely normal while internally thinking:
If you take ONE more noisy sip from that bottle, we’re both going to HR.
And I have actually become remarkably good at controlling myself.
My colleagues probably have no idea about the level of personal growth taking place across the desk from them.
They see Laura typing.
Calm.
Professional.
Pleasant.
Meanwhile Laura’s nervous system has identified someone eating an apple three desks away as an immediate threat to national security.
But here’s the sentence I refuse to accept:
“Everybody makes noise when they eat and drink.”
No.
No, they don’t.
Because you cannot hear me drink.
I know this because I have studied myself like I’m conducting forensic research.
I can drink water without broadcasting it.
I can chew without letting the entire table know exactly where my tongue is.
I can eat a steak without producing a soundtrack.
So apparently it is possible.
Which means this is no longer just my problem.
We need to start sharing responsibility here.
The funny thing is that carnivore has made so many things quieter in my head.
Less noise.
Less chaos.
More clarity.
But perhaps that’s exactly why actual noise has become so much louder.
It’s as if someone cleaned the windows and unfortunately I can now see everything.
Except in my case, I can hear everything.
Every chew.
Every swallow.
Every unnecessary inhale before somebody takes another bite.
Every innocent colleague who has absolutely no idea that their afternoon snack has just become the biggest test of my emotional maturity that day.
And before anyone gets concerned: no, I’m not actually going to hurt anybody.
But if you’ve ever experienced misophonia, you’ll understand the difference between wanting someone to stop making a sound and the completely irrational, instant rage your body can produce when they don’t.
There is no gentle build-up.
It’s zero to:
WHY ARE YOU DRINKING LIKE THAT?!
in approximately 0.4 seconds.
So six years after We All Know Them, I regret to inform you that there has been no miraculous recovery.
Quite the opposite.
The list has expanded.
I still hear you chew.
I still hear you slurp.
I still don’t understand why some of you need that much air to eat.
But now…
I can hear you drink too.
Carnivore gave me clarity.
Apparently it forgot to mention that clarity comes with surround sound.
I like people.
I really do.
I’d just prefer some of you on mute.
