I'm Not Alone

I have an issue. Ok, I have many "issues," but one in particular has caused me a whole lot of grief from as far back as junior high or high school.

I can't stand mouth noises.

I can't tolerate lip-smacking, gum-popping, tooth-sucking, finger-licking, chip-crunching, apple-mushing, or repeated sniffing. All the sounds of mastication are abhorrent to me. A lot of people say, "Well, yeah! It's rude to chew with your mouth open." That's not what I mean. Bad manners are annoying. These sounds, the sounds of mouths and breathing and liquid sloshing around tongues, produce a very particular reaction in me: I get violently angry, and I want nothing more than to smack the offender in the face to get them to stop or flee the room immediately.

I used to describe the sensation as "wanting to rip the person's tongue out and wrap it around their head to get them to stop." Not pretty, not rational.

Riding the subway with a gum-cracker is the 9th Circle of Hell. If I don't have my iPod to drown out the sound, I have to close my eyes and attempt to concentrate on something else, just to quiet the "beast rocking in the corner," to keep from screaming or doing the gum-cracker serious bodily harm.

I keep quiet about it. When I have mentioned it in the past, people look at me blankly, and I can almost hear their thoughts: "Cuh-razy. Plumb crazy." I mentioned it to my family long, long ago. They thought I was being melodramatic. They often tease me by smacking their lips.

Until today, I thought I was the only one who flew into a violent rage when she couldn't escape from those sounds. I thought I was alone. I honestly thought that there was something very, very wrong with me. I'd given up thinking that there was anything I could do about it. I figured I'd just have to exercise enormous self-control every time I was around someone with a noisy mouth.

Turns out I'm not alone.

Selective Sound Sensitivity can occur in people of all ages, and can have a sudden or gradual onset, often around puberty. [ding!] Most often cited objectionable sounds include lip smacking [ding!], chewing [ding!], swallowing, breathing, [ding! ding!]...

Reactions can include rage [ding!], sadness, panic attack [ding!], indecision, loss of cognition, physical itching or crawling sensations, urge to flee, or fight [ding! ding! ding!]. Some people have to make vocalizations in response to the aggravating sound [I totally pop a piece of gum when I can't escape; it helps], others wear earplugs in an attempt to avoid provocation [I've considered doing this on the subway, but felt like too much of a dingus to do it].

When I found this Yahoo! Group and read the description, I started to cry. It's such a relief to know that my reaction to these noises is not something I manufactured for whatever reason. I kept repeating to myself, "It's real. It's real." I may now be an official resident in Crazytown, but at least the population is greater than 1. Scroll down to the responses on the bottom of this page, and you'll see just how many other people have Selective Sound Sensitivity.

So what happens now? I don't know. I'll keep researching, and I'm awaiting approval to join the Selective Sound Sensitivity Yahoo! Group. Some message groups have tossed around therapy ideas, from "pink noise" CDs to Prozac. I certainly hope it doesn't come down to drugs, but honestly, I won't rule them out.

For now, it's enough to know that I'm not the only one.

Silk

Silk
Originally uploaded by AdiaMichelle

My day was not like silk at all.

I woke up this morning and thought, "Wow, I'm well-rested for having gone to sleep at 1am. Oh dear. i wonder if my alarm didn't go off." I crawled out of bed, thinking it was 8 am, not 7, the target time. I looked at my phone. "9:39."

Oh crap.

I was supposed to be at Lincoln Center at 10. I live in Brooklyn. It can be an hour-long trip from my house to Lincoln Center.

I called the catering office. No one answered. I desperately wanted to shower, but there was no time. I was already going to be at least a half hour late.

I washed my face, swabbed at my pits, threw on my catering clothes and ran out the door. It was a beautiful, globally-warmed mid-October day, but I barely noticed. All I could think was, "Late. Late. Late. Never been late. Hate being late to work. Late. Late. Late."

I arrived at about 10:40. Ugh. And since I didn't get to do my morning ritual (make coffee, write three pages, drink coffee, read blogs and news, shower, get dressed, eat something, leave) I felt discombobulated all morning.

The good news is that I got my checks for "Life On Mars" today. Bad news: TAXES. Ick. I hate New York taxes. You Minnesotans think you get taxed a lot. You're wrong. At least it's a set amount, not 20%, or 22%, or 25%. (One week at my last job, I made more than normal, about $460. They took 24% out of my check. I mean, really? Obviously I'm not super wealthy if I'm only making $460 a week, and that was more than normal. MUST you take a quarter of it? And for what? Rat and cockroach upkeep? Come on.)

I got released earlier than expected (*sad face*) so I have time to come home, take a shower, and make myself presentable for my work study interview. (I'm hoping to take yoga and get my body back into dancing shape.)

Ciao, kidlings.

Clearing

I just murdered a whole bunch of credits on my acting resume. Bonnie Gillespie, L.A. casting director, told me that I need to get rid of them, and therefore, away they go. I'm sad, but it's confirmation of what I've been struggling with for the past 11 months: I really have started over, and everything I did before doesn't count here.

I don't mean that my experience on set or on a stage, or the classes I've taken, or the people I met before New York don't matter. They do, immensely. They've shaped me and encouraged me and challenged me and prepared me to be resilient in the face of New York elitism.

However, no one cares what I did in Minneapolis. They want to know if I've done anything in New York that matters (i.e. NOT background work, as exciting and affirming as it was), and until I have, they'll let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I don't matter.

I don't believe them, but I'm willing to play by their rules - for a while - to get what I came here to get: a viable acting career. And until I make the decision to stop, nothing can make me.