Finding The Rhythm Of The Slugs
Listening for the sound of the margins.
I used to move through life like a rubber band wrapped around a watermelon. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen videos of that, but they never end well.
These days I can spot when my nervous system is fried, which is objectively good; it means I can tell you quite confidently that I’m a tangled ball of tension today with nowhere to let it come undone.
It made me think of my dad. He always had a thing about people chewing with their mouths open. Not only did he hate it, but he’d become so completely enraged by it that I often wondered if he actually knew why he was so mad. Fists would hit the table. Plates would clink, clank, and clatter. If I watched closely, I could spot his effort to resist the inevitable boiling point. The giveaway was a throbbing vein that would magically sprout from his forehead. His posture would stiffen and then his face would turn red, like he was lifting something super heavy.
As a kid, it was both a terrifying and helpful warning sign. At least, that’s what I’d tell myself, my friends, and my therapists over the years.
So today, my stress made me think about my dad’s. And then about his dad’s, which had been a thing about wearing hats at the dinner table. It was a big no-no for us—I guess it was about manners—but I never fully got that one. At first, my siblings and I thought my dad’s issue with open-mouthed chewing was about etiquette, too. But it never explained why he had a problem with my step-brother scraping his fork on his teeth, or the egregiousness of someone talking while he was trying to catch the funny sound coming from the car.
I didn’t know why his triggers were triggers, I just knew that they were. For years, I chalked it up to him being an asshole. But then, as an adult, I got a dog.
Ava’s a four-year-old rescue who loves frisbee more than treats, and leaning against your leg more than ear scratches. A few months after getting Ava, she got giardia. That’s when we spent a couple of very long weeks going outside in the middle of the night. Like most dogs do when distressed, she would pant like crazy and anxiously lick her lips when she had to go out. My reaction to this was a crashing wave of rage I couldn’t explain—some primal, nervous-system-level response.
I was horrified, but I simply could not stand hearing the sound of her licking and panting like that... like fingernails on a chalkboard.
A few years ago when I talked to my therapist about it, she’d asked if I’d ever heard of misophonia. I hadn’t, so she went on to tell me it’s a sound sensitivity and auditory processing disorder known to impact some neurodivergent folks. Shortly thereafter, she gently informed me that I met the criteria.
Holy shit.
Today, Ava’s getting over a stomach bug. She’d been throwing up a lot, panting, and nervously smacking her lips. My nervous system still twists and knots itself at this so, after a few breathing exercises, I grabbed my earplugs, my noise-canceling headphones, and sat myself down at my typewriter. I love feeling the keystrokes, the control of the clicking sound, and the rhythm of the slugs slamming against the platen. It pulls me out of my head. Softly. Gently. I get to launch into the world of what I’m writing, even when listening for the indicator bell at the end of the line.
It made me wonder if my dad’s ever found better ways of coping… or whether he even listens for the sound of the margins at all.
How do you keep yourself in check? What do you look or listen for? Has it helped you learn to do things differently?
onward.
Oh, and if something clicked for you while reading, hit reply and tell me what it was.
If you enjoyed reading this, I write short reflections like it every day as part of an email series called BUDS (Becoming Unobstructed Daily Snippets). Think of them like field notes for navigating agency, grief, and creativity in daily life.
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