Let’s become savage
Want to leap down from my tower
Unlearn restraint and good manners
And see what will flower
Underneath the polite and the shame
Want to smell my own desire
Bury myself deep in your fur
Throw my human-ness on the pyre
For as long as I remember, I’ve had a hard time with people making certain sounds.
A healthcare worker on the train incessantly popping her gum. The man behind me in line jangling the change in his pants’ pocket. A toddler at the grocery kicking at the back of my shopping cart. Some street vender guy whistling on the street.
These have the capacity to drive me crazy.
I am not talking mildly bothered. I mean, they make me feel homicidal.
(Disclaimer: I have not nor would I ever act on those impulses. But I do have them.)
What is it about these sounds that gets my goat? I mean, I am a singer, after all. I love music. I am an actress. I love and study voice and vocal expression.
I have very acute hearing, and I process quite aurally. My sense of hearing is a very rich source of sense memory for me in my work. Having the sense of a person’s voice will flood me with my experience of them. Recalling a song will take me back to all the sensations I was having at the time when I was first living with it.
I believe in the healing powers of sound and have benefited from and used them in my healing work.
With such a powerful connection to sound, you’d think that I would love ’em all. Nope.
There’s something about a repetitive sound that is out of my power to affect being generated by someone else that just gets to me.
Sometimes I think it is because I am the youngest, and grew up in a household with a workaholic, rageaholic father. I learned to listen to the house to pick up on cues and signals so that I could navigate the often-dangerous waters of our family dynamics.
I have a strong need for freedom as a result. It is way up there on my needs list. I need to feel free to express myself and to act freely over just about anything else. Cannot stand to feel suppressed or contained.
So you would think I’d applaud the free sound-making of others. Live and let live!
But, well, no. Just no. To certain sounds. The repetition doesn’t have to be steady. It can be slow and constant, like Chinese water-torture. It can be an intermittent or random pattern. (That can be worse!)
Having to hear someone else’s music on the subway, either when they blast it from their phone (without ear buds!) or so loud that you can hear it through the earbuds isvery aggravating for me.
The worst is the sound of slurping soup or smacking eating sounds. (Chewing or crunching for some reason is OK.) I had a dear ex-boyfriend who loved soup and loved to slurp it. It gave him such joy. I could not stand it. It was one of a few deal breakers. He offered to change it, but I didn’t want that. He got such pleasure eating it that way. Just because I happened to have a problem with it didn’t mean he should give it up. It was sad, but we were not to be.
There’s a song in the musical “Chicago” called “Cell Block Tango” where the women in jail sing about why they killed their husbands/boyfriends. One does it because he popped his gum. “He Had it Coming.”
“You know how people
have these little habits
That get you down. Like Bernie.
Bernie like to chew gum.
No, not chew. POP.
So I came home this one day
And I am really irritated, and I’m
looking for a bit of sympathy
and there’s Bernie layin’
on the couch, drinkin’ a beer
and chewin’. No, not chewin’.
Poppin’. So, I said to him,
I said, “you pop that
gum one more time…”
and he did.
So I took the shotgun off the wall
and I fired two warning shots…
…into his head.”
I so get it.
I have done a bit of research, and apparently there are others like me. There is something called misophonia that unfortunately sounds a bit too close to home on this.
Misophonia: “also known as selective sound sensitivity syndrome, starts with a trigger. It’s often an oral sound — the noise someone makes when they eat, breathe, chew, yawn, or whistle. Sometimes a small repetitive motion is the cause — someone fidgets, jostles you, or wiggles their foot.
Interestingly: “This lifelong condition usually starts between the ages of 9 and 13 and is more common with girls. It comes on quickly, but isn’t related to any one event. Doctors aren’t sure what causes misophonia, but it’s not a problem with your ears. They think it’s part mental, part physical. It could be related to how sound affects your brain and triggers automatic responses in your body.”
Source: http://www.webmd.com/mental-health/what-is-misophonia
I’ve never sought a diagnosis or treatment. I assume if I do have misophonia, it is pretty mild.
I always have choices. I can move away, change cars, practice breathing exercises, put on headphones and listen to music myself to drown out the other’s.
I try to remain curious, compassionate with myself and others, and also find some humor around it.
After all, the making of the sounds is out of my control in the end, isn’t it? All I can control is how I choose to live with my response to them.
In the words of good ole Autry:
“I got spurs that jingle, jangle, jingle
As I go ridin’ merrily along
And they sing, ‘Oh ain’t you glad you’re single’
And that song ain’t so very far from wrong”
Read more: Gene Autry – (I’ve Got Spurs That) Jingle Lyrics | MetroLyrics
If you wish to quell your boredom with this lover or with that
Take a quill in hand and write a note to create an awful spat
Accuse them, then be querulous, say they’re nothing but a rat
They’ll question and they’ll quiver, then they’ll quit and leave you flat
Alone at last, your boredom quelled, you’ll grin like a Cheshire cat
You’ll feel quantum relief and joy having made a stunning coup d’etat
Inspired by The Daily Post Daily Word Post: quill
#fiftywaystoleaveyourlover
Tether me down to the ground, if you love me
The winds of change are at my heels once more
I’ve been running too far, too fast, for too long
Need to drop anchor and rest, lay my head on the shore
Let me listen to the whispers of the rustling trees
Feel the pulse of the earth through my bones
Tether me down to the ground, if you love me
Let us drown out the call o’ the wild with sweet moans
I was plucked from a cluster of stars
I was shot from divine skies
If you want to get to know me
Just look into my eyes
I’ve lived for thousands of years
Held court on dirtmats and on thrones
There’s moonglow in my pocket
And stardust in my bones
The essence of love is potent
It only takes a dash or so
To enrich the taste of the moment
To flavor the next one “to go”
Some might call my cat Miracle a “fraidy cat.”
I say she just has sensitive hearing and has a very vivid imagination.
When there is any kind of pitched alarm (door buzzer, oven timer, etc) she scampers away to the nearest place of safety and won’t come out again until she is good and ready.
Ceiling fans really create stress for her. The shadows made from their fins taunt her. I think she imagines a great flying creature is overhead, ready to swoop down for the kill at any moment.
Her movements walking through the room with one in it are strategically designed to avoid being directly beneath the “creature’s” view.
She hugs the edges of the room, and if she has to go beneath her enemy for some reason (the doorman buzzed and she has to get to the back bedroom to safety!) she runs low to the ground looking up as she passes as if a pterodactyl is overhead and death is imminent. Kitty armageddon!
I feel for her. I relate to moving through the world in fight or flight mode. I, too, have sensitive hearing and a very vivid imagination. I, too, can make monsters out of harmless things and people.
Miracle was given her name by the Wichita Falls, TX vet who saved her life. She’d been found, near death, having been abused by someone. He named her Miracle because it was a miracle she had survived.
Her back leg is still a bit wonky from whatever cruelty was inflicted on her as a baby. And she hates being handled.
She is a fierce survivor.
My brother John adopted her immediately upon meeting her, despite already having two cats. They bonded deeply: she would perch on his broad shoulders when he was at his computer, and sleep on his vast chest when he slept.
When my brother died suddenly, she and his other two cats were left for a day and a half alone in his apartment after the EMT took him away.
As my father, other brother and I packed up John’s apartment, Miracle was the only one who would come out from her hiding places now and then. When we were done after a few days and it was time to leave, I had to go in and capture all of the cats. John’s vet was taking the 2 older ones. We were driving Miracle across Texas to Houston.
Turns out a fourth cat was hiding under the bed with the other two. He was a stray John had sometimes fed on his porch. Somehow he got in, probably during the EMT situation.
This cat did not look well. I left him until last and then went ahead and gathered him up to take him to the vet too.
(We later found out that that cat was indeed very sick. The other two older cats were infected. Somehow, Miracle survived that too. It was such a relief that she’d escaped that. My brother would have been heartbroken at that whole sad situation.)
We drove Miracle down the 8 or so hours to Houston. I had offered her a home, but my cancer-fighting father insisted that he take care of her at his house there.
(My father, who had NEVER liked cats. He’d somehow fallen in love and then married a woman who had a huge heart and an enormous love of all animals. We always had cats and dogs growing up, much to his chagrin. He had begrudgingly tolerated them over the years.
Once, he suggested my mom just feed them all dry food, I guess he hated the smell of canned food. My mother asked him would he like to eat ceareal for dinner the rest of their marriage. That put that to rest.
But having lost his father, then his sweetheart of 54 years and now his son in a short period of time, I think his heart was so stretched out by grief that he was willing and able. And perhaps it was a last act of fatherhood he could give to John, to look after his favorite cat.)
Miracle and my Dad got along surprisingly well. I will never forget visiting and actually seeing him let her get on his lap! He said she was alright company. He just wished two things: that she’d not throw up or lick his arm. Otherwise, she was ok.
They were together about 7 months until my Dad died. Again, the EMT came, this time to take my Dad away. But luckily, my other brother was the one who found him, so he was there to help Miracle through the commotion this time.
Now, the plan was for me to bring her up to NYC to live with me. She was on her own for about a month in my Dad’s house until I could fly down. My brother visited her daily, but she grew very lonely.
I was getting married and moving all at the same time and needed to wait for a calm time to bring her up where I could help her integrate.
But she was getting restless alone, so it became clear we had to do something.
Fortunately, and quite miraculously, at my father’s memorial service, his first secretary happened to offer an interim place for her to stay. Turned out she fostered animals and was well set up to take in a cat shortterm. So Miracle was moved to her place, where she had an area in a finished basement. She was played with, and safe.
I finally got down as soon as I could after the move and flew her back home. Anyone who has traveled on a plane with a cat knows it is very stressful on them. She did pretty well, considering.
I carefully went about the process of adding her to my household, which already held two cats: a brother and sister who had been the apples of my eye and ruled my roost for 15 years.
Though I implemented all the plans I read about how to do this, it did not go well. The other two were not welcoming, and sort of forced Miracle into living in one room of the apartment. Suddenly there were war zones, and each cat had their own territory.
My visions of three cats piled together sleeping on the couch were dashed.
It wasn’t what I had hoped, but Miracle seemed happy enough in her zone, which was my husband and my shared office. She had her own litter box and food area.
And so we became a three cat household.
It turns out that this Miracle cat, who I thought I was saving by bringing her to my home, would end up saving mine.
Within a month after bringing her up, my beloved boy cat Pookie was diagnosed with an agressive bone cancer. He passed away within three months.
It was devastating. Shortly thereafter, his sister Sabrina was diagnosed with cancer. After a long illness, she too passed away the next year.
So for the first year and a half with us, Miracle was not only the third cat on the totem pole, but she was also sort of the backburner cat to the ill cats in terms of attention.
The day I lost Sabrina was extremely hard. For whatever reason, her loss held all the other major losses in it: my mother, brother, father and Pookie.
Thank God for Miracle.
If I’d had to come home to an empty-of-cats home, it would have been even more impossibly sad than it already was.
But fortunately, I came home to a little furry loved one who needed my attention. And boy, did I need her.
Today, Miracle has reign of the full apartment, as well as our full attention. It has taken time for her to expand her territory into formerly enemy regions. And though I think a part of her will always be looking over her shoulder, she seems to be fully owning being top cat, and flourishing under our undying love.
Yes, she is sensitive to sounds and she thinks ceiling fans are flying predators. But it has been several years without the EMT at the door, and we are pretty much now living in her apartment instead of her living in ours.
Just as it should be.
A stranger I am, here am I
I sit and watch the world go by
I reach, I strive, I seek to live
I know that I’ve so much to give
I try to drive, I drive to try
I think God’s laughing in the sky.
When I was a girl, I lived for food.
The promise of the after-school snack kept me going through the grueling days of my youth. I’d race home to find sweet and savory relief from the confusion of adolescence.
I’d eat from a box of graham crackers, spreading layers of vanillla chocolate chip canned frosting. Or I’d slice up a Snickers bar the way they did in a commercial on at the time, pretending I was in it. Then maybe some Lay’s potato chips. Maybe a Wonder Bread/Gulden’s Mustard/Kraft cheese and baloney sandwich.
I was on my own, so I could eat like I wanted to. No father home yet to bring tension and self-consciousness to the air.
I’d fill myself, quelling the uncomfortable thoughts and feelings that haunted me at any other time of my day. This was all mine. My time free from criticism, pressure or fear.
Over the years, I became desperate around this intimate connection with food. Protective of the rituals. The private pleasure I found in food and the act of eating it.
I knew something was off about how I related to food. I felt ashamed and like there was something wrong with me, while at the same time feeling like it was crucial to my very existence. That trichotomy created a painful struggle inside me of shame and appetite and need.
I became secretive around it, knowing on some level that I was not like other people.
I now understand that somewhere along the way, I learned to equate food with so many things I needed: love, attention, security, connectedness, relief, quiet, peace, pleasure, a sense of having something for myself, a way to feel like I had control of one thing in the world.
I believe that some of this relationship to food was learned, familial. My mother, too, sought refuge in her treats. She loved candy, and when I came home from school, she was usually lying in her bed, reading mystery novels, eating candy from a stash she kept in her bedside table. She, too, at some point in her life, reached for food to solve and resolve being on this planet.
I understood her for this. I feel such compassion for her. For her huge needs and the dysfunctional way she had developed to cope with getting them met.
It has taken many years of unraveling this connection for me to find a new relationship to food. There’s been tremendous loss in it. A loss of my friend, my savior, my companion, my sidekick.
But it has been so freeing, too. I have been learning how to give myself what I had asked for from food all those years: love.
Sounds easy, and obvious, right? But what does that actually look like?
It looks like this: giving myself The Five A’s of Love: Attention, Acceptance, Appreciation, Affection, and Allowing.
(The Five A’s concept is from the wonderful book How To Be An Adult in Relationships – Five Keys to Mindful Loving by psychotherapist, David Richo, PhD.)
Those Five A’s satisfy the snack craving every time. I’m not saying I don’t still crave and even miss that snack eating ritual. I do. That’s a deeply embedded habit. I got pretty hard-wired around it.
But today, I take the snack-seeking girl inside by the hand, and I ask her what she really needs.
Sometimes it is some appreciation for all I have been doing all day.
Sometimes it is affection. Maybe a bath. Some demonstration of loving care.
Maybe it is the need to be allowed to really acknowledge feeling afraid, or spent, or angry.
It took awhile for that part of myself to trust that my needs could be met in new ways. To trust in something other than food.
To trust life. To trust love. To trust loving myself, in life.
It is an every day practice, this mindfulness of love. I pour the energy I used to hold for food into other things. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t gotten my wires crossed, that food wasn’t so complicated for me.
But it is.
And so I accept this truth as if I were diabetic, and I do what I need to do to care for myself.
Mostly, as I said, I feel free.
I no longer carry that shame I felt around it. I am literally lighter in spirit. That feeling is the prize I keep my sights on. It is what makes it all worth it.
I may no longer “have” snacks. But I have me.
Sometimes when I am out in the world, I feel a compulsion to go home immediately.
I literally feel drawn, as if by a magnet, back to the safety of home.
I have lived with this sensation for many years now, since 2001. I blogged about it last year when I wrote about depression.
I am still unraveling what is contained in this dynamic within.
On the one hand, I love life, being alive. I crave connection. I love people. I love humanity.
I am an actress. Human behavior endlessly fascinates me. What makes people take actions. What drives us all to stay alive on this spinning blue ball. That we choose every day to love and aspire to things.
And yet. There are times when I am filled with a mix of emotions and sensations that compel me to get home as soon as I can. Fear, anxiety, panic.
I never thought if it before, but is this a version of a panic attack? I have no idea, no way to guage that. I hear people talk about panic attacks. I know people who suffer from them.
How do you label an internal experience like what I experience? I guess if there are enough people experiencing similar symptoms, someone names it and it becomes a way to discuss, diagnose.
I have brought it to conventional therapy. Past life regression work. Rebirthing. Shamanic healing work.
I’ve learned cognitive behaviors to manage it. All have been helpful in one way or another.
But I still don’t have a concrete understanding of why it happens to me. Is it genetically encoded in my DNA? Did my people learn to survive by keeping close to home?
In a past life, was I some tribal member who died traumatically when being away from the others and my soul just cannot let it go?
I know for some years, I withdrew from being in the flow of life because I did not know how to cope. I had to learn how to be in the world again. I had to mature emotionally, with help. That has been an amazing process.
But that period of time is many years past. I have never felt more healed, more whole, more integrated than I do now. I am in awe of the healing I have done, of where I am today. I have a truly gifted life, filled with love, connection, abundance, and creativity.
And yet. The magnet pull comes upon me still.
I believe my body has more to show me. There are answers coming from within, but on my body’s own time. Not my ego’s.
And so I bear patient, loving witness as it happens, listening for clues even as I experience the pull when it hits me. I have finally stopped adding to the pain of it all by beating myself up for its mere existence. Or trying to bully myself into being able to “just bypass it already.”
When I have that pull to go home, I choose to see it with the eyes of a loving parent. I take my own hand and ask myself if it can wait until I finish my day. I promise to give that part of me full attention when safe at home, later.
And I follow thru on that promise. That is crucial. I need that part to begin to trust me, to trust that I can handle whatever may go down out in the world.
I feel that trust growing inside. It is a deeply important feeling.
And I welcome this.
I am building a new home within. And when completed, I will be there, wherever I go, wherever I am in the world.
Beyond the Skinny Branches 