White Noise

Static. White Noise. They say it’s good for you. With white noise, your brain can tune out all the distracting noises of the world and instead just focus on the one important thing of the moment.

I have always enjoyed static, the mindless noise that suffocates all others. Most people try to make the world of cars, machines, and people disappear behind a veil of music, but for me, white noise was always more efficient. Turn it on and, after the few moments that your mind takes to adjust, everything unimportant fades into an invisible distance. Without the constant disturbances, your head quickly begins to feel light and clear. Your thoughts can flow freely. Music never did that for me.

A few times, some friends asked me whether it was damaging my hearing to listen to white noise all day. Of course, they were exaggerating when they would tell me I would soon go deaf the more I took on the noise. I only had my ears filled with static whenever I was alone or wanted to be and feel alone. Static was my escape from the world.

Still, their doubts were justified. They finally got me to see someone. I went with nonchalance; I wasn’t necessarily paying for the visit or receiving any physical medication afterwards. As for my parents, they took the advice and concern of my friends. Doing so, they decided it wouldn’t hurt to check up on me. Finally getting to the office, my doctor said that white noise was okay as long as I gave my brain a break every few hours. Without a break, the brain might adjust to the background noise; it might get addicted.

I followed his advice and made sure that I unplugged my headphones at least every few hours into the static. They felt so much like a part of my body that I sometimes forgot to pull the cables out of my ears, but usually I did. I never silenced the world with white noise for more than four or five hours at a time. At least, not until my seizure.

Or that was what I was told; I’m not actually sure whether it was a seizure. It could have been a miniature stroke or anything else that was strong enough to make an adult human unconscious. But they never found out what it was. So it was just me. Little Lena all alone and unresponsive, all out of her own mistake, her own unintentional choice.

But that’s not important. What is important is that I was alone at the time. I remembered that I was on the bed of my rented one-room apartment with a book in my hand and white noise in my ears. It was just a moment, but it was long enough. I saw my hands cramp. The book fell. Then everything went black.

If not for my brother, Len, I honestly think I might have died. He wanted to visit. He rang the doorbell and he called my phone several times without avail. Then, after half a day, he called the police. They found me on the bed. My body was lying sideways, with my head pushed against the wall. I had a crust of saliva around my mouth and a crust of blood around my ears.

My brother said that, in the hospital, I woke up screaming. When the blackness faded away, it was replaced first by pain and then by noise. Pain and noise. That has been my life for the last six months.

Even for my friends, it took a while until they understood that I’m not just rude. They still stare at the headphones when I meet them, but they have learned to adjust. They know that I can hear them through the noise--and they know that I can’t hear them anymore without my headphones. With strangers it is more difficult. Shopkeepers and waitresses always look as if they want to shoot me for my rudeness. Making new friends has become hard; most think that I am trying to make some odd fashion statement. I gave up on dating a long time ago.

But the social implications are not what bothers me. I never was the person that was upset about an evening alone at home.

What bothers me are the noises I hear in the rare moments without white noise to drown them out.