Save me from the sound of silence
(Originally published August 2023)
There are times when I require silence, such as when I’m falling sleep or concentrating. I can’t take any distractions when I’m working or trying to thread a needle without my glasses on.
But otherwise, when I’m alone and doing something, I require background noise. In my ideal world, I’d live in a café—or maybe just have people gather in my house murmuring and clinking china without ever interacting with me directly.
I like to have sounds on from the moment I wake up: podcasts when I’m knitting or cooking, audiobooks when I’m gardening or driving, and music when I’m cleaning. I’m not addicted to constant sound. It’s just that if I have to endure more than 30 seconds without it, I get antsy.
This is totally, perfectly normal.
I find comfort in constant sound because I have too many thoughts. Don’t worry; the things I think about all day aren’t disturbing or anxiety-producing (I save those for my weekly 4 a.m. existential-dread sessions).
I just have a lot of questions and observations that rattle around in my brain like marbles in a coffee can, and they’re exhausting. A little external stimulus, even if I’m not paying attention to it, can drown out just enough of the rattling to keep me present.
“I just have a lot of questions and observations that rattle around in my brain like marbles in a coffee can, and they’re exhausting. ”
I assumed everyone’s brains worked like this. Then I read about a crazy theory: Not all people have internal monologues. Their minds are naturally quiet.
I can’t imagine. If you looked inside my head, you’d see me trapped in a speeding Ford Festiva with five auctioneers all peppering me with trivia questions while the radio blared ’80s music.
The other day I found myself standing in the kitchen wondering why I had gone in there. I know that this, like watching birds, often happens with age. But this time it was because, in an unplanned hiccup of silence, I started wondering how Benedict Arnold died.
It paralyzed me.
Was he executed as a traitor? That seemed likely, but then again, maybe he died of smallpox or another popular disease of the day. Or maybe he lived to old age but wasn’t welcome at parties anymore.
This is what I’m up against every minute of the day. When my mind is allowed to wander, it goes too far afield. Having other people’s voices in the room, even if I’m not actively listening to them, provides just enough stimulus to keep me on track.
I know some people who say they prefer silence. They insist that they enjoy going about their day without any auditory input at all.
I’m impressed. And baffled.
Last week, I ran into an old friend and fellow background-noise lover, a guy who rarely took his earbuds out. He had recently decided to change his ways and was now taking long bike rides in silence. All he heard, I assume, was the wind whipping past his ears and the occasional ping of an insect off his forehead.
Seeing the horror in my eyes, he assured me it was a beautiful thing.
“When you don’t have added sounds, you get to listen to your mind,” he said, in a psychedelic tone. I explained that this is exactly what I try to avoid.
He told me I’d eventually hear my “true self” under all the chatter in my head. And, as icky as that sounded, I didn’t want to reject his crazy notion outright. So, while making dinner the other night, I gave silence a chance.
I thought about a thousand things, including whether it’s just a myth that earwigs, unlike other insects, take care of their young; why the U.S. can’t quit pennies; that my middle-school locker combination was 36-18-8; what day Christmas falls on this year; and how water bottles were not a thing when I was growing up.
“Radio Free Europe” played on a mental loop the entire time.
Did I hear my true self? No. But I did burn dinner.
Waving away the smoke, I lunged for my phone. With fumbling fingers I turned on a podcast about proto-Germanic languages or something (I wasn’t really listening).
Peace at last.
You may say that my brain would be healthier if I spent more time in silence. And you may be right. But please: Don’t judge me until you’ve ridden a mile in my Festiva.
