Misophonia, Joyce, and Hell

[Guest guest]

Some of you have described your versions of Hell: usually, being trapped in a place where your trigger-noises are constant. That topic reminded me of a passage from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by Joyce. It was years ago that I first read it. Back then, I thought that my misophonia was a neurosis unique to me. My trigger noises are all speaking-sounds, so when I read this passage, I felt like I had found evidence that I wasn't alone. Joyce may not have had misophonia, but I have not yet found another explanation for the "soft language" that doesn't sound forced."Creatures were in the field: one, three, six: creatures were moving in the field, hither and thither. Goatish creatures with human faces, horny browed, lightly bearded and grey as india-rubber. The malice of evil glittered in their hard eyes, as they moved hither and thither, trailing their long tails behind them. A rictus of cruel malignity lit up greyly their old bony faces. One was clasping about his ribs a torn flannel waistcoat, another complained monotonously as his beard stuck in

the tufted weeds. Soft language issued from their spittleless lips as they swished in slow circles round and round the field, winding hither and thither through the weeds, dragging their long tails amid the rattling canisters. They moved in slow circles, circling closer and closer to enclose, to enclose, soft language issuing from their lips, their long swishing tails besmeared with stale shite, thrusting upwards their terrific faces.

Help!

He flung the blankets from him madly to free his face and neck. That was

his hell. God had allowed him to see the hell reserved for his sins: stinking, bestial, malignant, a hell of lecherous goatish fiends. For him! For him!"For the record, my greatest fear is that I'll be totally paralyzed--unable to move anything--and that people will come to see me, and start using their hospital-voices, or their sympathetic-voices--voices that are usually a dialect composed of nothing but my trigger-sounds. I won't be able to tell them to stop. I won't be able to do any of things that seem to help a little (imitating, leaving the room, clenching my jaw, tightening my muscles). I'll only be able to lie there, in agony, gently listening to my loved ones torture me.

[Guest guest]

I read that book 30 years ago, I don't remember much about it, but do recall that I related very much to the protagonist. Trapped and paralyzed, is also one of my nightmare scenarios. To: 4S <Soundsensitivity >Sent: Sunday, October 30, 2011 1:16 PMSubject: Misophonia, Joyce, and Hell

Some of you have described your versions of Hell: usually, being trapped in a place where your trigger-noises are constant. That topic reminded me of a passage from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by Joyce. It was years ago that I first read it. Back then, I thought that my misophonia was a neurosis unique to me. My trigger noises are all speaking-sounds, so when I read this passage, I felt like I had found evidence that I wasn't alone. Joyce may not have had misophonia, but I have not yet found another explanation for the "soft language" that doesn't sound forced."Creatures were in the field: one, three, six: creatures were moving in the field, hither and thither. Goatish creatures with human faces, horny browed, lightly bearded and grey as india-rubber. The malice of evil glittered in their hard eyes, as they moved hither and thither, trailing their long tails behind them. A rictus of cruel malignity lit up greyly their old bony faces. One was clasping about his ribs a torn flannel waistcoat, another complained monotonously as his beard stuck in

the tufted weeds. Soft language issued from their spittleless lips as they swished in slow circles round and round the field, winding hither and thither through the weeds, dragging their long tails amid the rattling canisters. They moved in slow circles, circling closer and closer to enclose, to enclose, soft language issuing from their lips, their long swishing tails besmeared with stale shite, thrusting upwards their terrific faces.

Help!

He flung the blankets from him madly to free his face and neck. That was

his hell. God had allowed him to see the hell reserved for his sins: stinking, bestial, malignant, a hell of lecherous goatish fiends. For him! For him!"For the record, my greatest fear is that I'll be totally paralyzed--unable to move anything--and that people will come to see me, and start using their hospital-voices, or their sympathetic-voices--voices that are usually a dialect composed of nothing but my trigger-sounds. I won't be able to tell them to stop. I won't be able to do any of things that seem to help a little (imitating, leaving the room, clenching my jaw, tightening my muscles). I'll only be able to lie there, in agony, gently listening to my loved ones torture me.