Taking in the World
By Sarah Gunnell
@srbg
Back in our dating years, my husband and I were always on the hunt for new places to explore together. We drove past the Marine Corps Museum near Quantico, Virginia often, and one day, decided to go inside.
The building itself is an inspiration—a marvel of steel and glass shimmering on the edge of the Interstate. Standing in the parking lot, we were awed at the size and grandeur of the museum’s crystalline pyramid roof. The soaring mast at the apex pierces the sky like a bayonet. Inside, historic aircraft floated above our heads, metal wings glinting in the sunshine of the central atrium. I slowed down to take in the massive gallery, absorbing the complexity of the architecture and inspired by the palpable sense of honor and innovation.
We moved through exhibits on the history of the Corps and galleries of stirring images detailing Marines in action. The interactive ‘Making Marines’ exhibit included a set of reimagined telephone booths inviting visitors to stand inside and experience the transformation from recruit to Marine. When I entered, I was accosted with a cacophony of noise. Drill Sergeants barked instructions from all sides. Whistles blew mercilessly. Other recruits' voices, echoes of stomping feet, and yelling—a barrage of charging noise—assaulted me from the speakers. I couldn’t escape the exhibit fast enough.
I rushed to free myself from the ambush of sound, shaking my hands and shoulders like I was inside a swarm of wasps. I retreated to the calm panorama of the atrium. The audio torture was overwhelming, rattling, tumultuous, and the experience is lodged like a bullet in my memory.
Standing in the sunlight of the museum gallery, years away from motherhood, I didn’t suspect how often I’d feel the echoes of my physical response to a different overwhelming soundtrack surrounded by my children.
***
Soiled pieces of clothing and debris lay scattered across the floor. Everyone is covered in bodily fluids. Everyone is crying. It is the middle of the afternoon a few sleepless nights after both of my daughters were finally discharged from the hospital. My best friend, an ER nurse, drove two hours in stop and go traffic to see me and my barely five-pound babies. She walks through the front door to a loud chaotic scene reminiscent of the workplace she’d just left. “It’s just so loud,” I sobbed. “The noise is making me feel like I’m losing my mind.”
Since my twins came home following their surprise delivery at 31 weeks, the daily flood of noise and energy is a tidal wave roaring toward me. I attempt to both bask in and deflect the onslaught, but I am not skilled in this type of attention combat. Even after more than 11 years of routine exposure to the soundtrack of motherhood, I am just an overly sensitive recruit. I’ve found that sound is a predator, and I am a caged animal triggered to fight.
When you’re a child with sensory processing issues, the responses to overstimulation can look like ‘meltdowns’ and ‘tantrums’. But when you’re a mother, it’s ‘losing it’ or ‘mommy rage’ or shame. When my senses are overwhelmed, I feel my anger like a tiger chained in the basement of my body. A big cat, aware of her power, trying to remain unaffected. But even the nicest, most controlled beast is bound to snap after too much agitation.
***
My daughters’ toddler curls lay in perfect ringlets after their evening bath and the scent of lavender lotion seeps through their footie pajamas. We snuggle and squish together in the well worn glider, cozy after a chilly evening walk to the park. Each has picked out a picture book they’d like to ‘read’ to me. Too tired to take turns, they both start presenting their books in a jumbled discordant duet. They share in a normal volume at first, but then each gets louder and more dramatic to be heard. One moves her book closer to my face, showing me the pictures. The other pushes herself off my lap and toward my shoulder, her mouth suddenly inches from my ear. They don’t listen to me when I ask calmly for them to sit back down and read more quietly, to take turns.
My brain cannot tolerate the friction of the overlapping stories and so much encroachment on my personal space. I’m inside a radio stuck between the stations of touch and hearing, bouncing between static bits and pieces broadcasting from each frequency. The sensations build, compress and pressurize, and I detonate. Suddenly, it’s my voice that is the loudest sound in the room, harsh and commanding like a drill sergeant’s.
The girls stop reading and move closer together. Comforting each other, their eyes wide with fear and surprise. My husband quietly comes to take over bedtime—my sweet, scared children reaching for him when he enters the room. The only thing louder than my words is my shame.
***
I found plenty of tactics to modify my environment when I looked for ways to handle sensory overwhelm. I tried listening to classical music during our long days at home, except it left me frustrated at our inability to fall under the sedate spell of the compositions. Instead of a soothing soundtrack, the violins and the violas competed with the directions and the drama in a multilayered fugue.
I ordered a pair of bright purple ear muffs like the kind they use at shooting ranges. They fit tightly over my ears and significantly dampen noise. But after 20 or so minutes wearing them, I always had a headache.
We spent more time outside where there were no walls to contain the sound and energy. I waged a daily war with the clutter and detritus of bouncers and blocks, tiny shoes and sippy cups in an attempt to limit the visual stimuli. I craved clean expanses of counters and floors for my eyes and brain to rest. But, bottles had to dry somewhere and I didn’t have enough energy or closet space to hide it all away each evening. I said no to hand me down toys that made noise, taped over the backs of dolls that cried and kept the volume low on the beloved Baby Einstein music player. I gritted my teeth through the endless melodies in exchange for baby smiles.
***
We’re in the car on the way home from the beach. The girls are eight years old. One child puts her window down, the other does not. A throbbing vortex of humid air thumps like a drumbeat in the car, echoes unevenly in my ears. I quickly open my window just a crack and the noise retreats.
A song we all love comes on the radio, and we sing along.
“Can you turn it up, Mom?” one asks. I crank the volume up so the harmony swirls around us.
But quickly there is a question from the back seat asking about a shower. My hand mashes the radio power button to OFF, and I clench my jaw with annoyance. Glancing over my shoulder, I snap.
“You need to decide if you want the music louder, or you want to talk to me; I can’t do both.”
They both nod. “Music up!”
Assured, I turn the radio back on.
But, over my shoulder I can hear bickering about who has to take a shower first. In their disagreement, someone kicks my seat. Also, we’re slowing down for construction and the lanes are merging ahead and cars are honking. My bathing suit is still damp and sand is in the lining making my sunburned skin crawl. Now there’s whining and the song is over, the station playing that chimney sweep commercial with the horrible jingle. The sensations layer and cram in on me in the front seat like too much sand packed into a beach pail.
***
I have spent years frustrated that the noise and overwhelm of my life was controlling me. When environmental accommodations didn’t make a big enough difference, my therapist and I worked on ways to further improve my internal coping strategies. The goal wasn’t to not feel anything anymore when overstimulated, but instead to get better at tolerating the feelings of stress so that I wasn’t helplessly controlled by them.
I’ve learned that the besieged feelings pass, how to dim the dissonance, and—at my very best—I can stay calm and centered. It’s taken years of trying and failing and trying again, implementing new techniques, digging into my triggers and so, so many deep inhales.
I visualize marching a very straight line—like a tightrope—behind a waterfall. Concentrating on one foot in front of the other, regardless of the chaos and the cascade.
I practice taking ten deep breaths and repeat my mantras: This is not an emergency. I am calm and peaceful.
I pretend I am a robot, a shiny mechanical puppet void of emotions. My imaginary coding ensuring I respond to overwhelming input not by going haywire, but by responding with a handful of expertly crafted, pre-programmed phrases. It sounds like you are having a hard time right now. I am having difficulty with all this noise. Please, I am talking to your sister.
I am slowly learning how to be better at holding my breath under the wave of input and come out the other side, unscathed.
I go for a walk, pushing the stress from inside my body down and out through the soles of my feet. I pause at our neighborhood’s dead end. A view of the quiet river inlet spreads before me. I sync my breathing to the cadence of the water as it laps at dock pilings and fishing boat hulls. I think about the unseen forces of the tides, the daily ebb and flow of the water filling and draining our cove. Mercies are new every morning. I can try again.
***
My twins are 11 years old now, and we are all navigating the unique bootcamp that is today’s tweenhood. The onslaught of noise in the house is different: more backtalk and less bedtime stories, less KidzBop and more Harry Styles. More Influencers and less influence. There is a clamor too, from outside—chattering from device screens, rumbling from friends, and echoes in school hallways.
My brain has problems processing the world and not losing my place in it. The strategies I’m learning help defend my inside voice from the attacks of the outside world. While it is inescapable, I’ve also learned I am not a defenseless captive to the chaos and noise of motherhood. With now three sets of eyes and hearts watching, it is more important than ever to be attuned to my body and defend the space and time it needs. Everyday I try and fail and try again, resolved to be a better example for them.
***
Back in the car leaving the beach, my hands are tight on the steering wheel. I am determined to handle the overwhelm of this moment. Off goes the radio. Up go the windows. I take a deep breath in. This is not an emergency. I breathe out. Relax my fingers. They are kids being kids. We’re stopped at a light and now the only sound in the car is the tic tic tic of my blinker as two sets of identical eyes turn toward me watching my lips form the words. I repeat my mantra like an incantation. I am calm and peaceful. I am calm and peaceful. I am calm and peaceful.
I find their eyes reflected in the rearview mirror and grace is extended within the quiet beat of our shared gaze. “Let’s take a minute here, please. I’m feeling overwhelmed,” I begin.
Guest essay written by Sarah Gunnell. Sarah lives in Virginia with her husband, three wild and beautiful daughters, too many houseplants, and one reliable sourdough starter. Her days are spent writing Excel formulas and returning overdue library books. She stays up way too late reading and sometimes writing. It took three decades, two preemie daughters and a lot of tears for her to understand she is a Highly Sensitive Person. This is her first published essay.