Turns Out I Didn’t Have Selective Hearing. I Was Just Deaf.

 

For nearly 30 odd years, I have struggled with my hearing while everyone around me seemed to think I was either rude, distracted, ignoring them, or just being a massive pain in the arse.

Apparently, I had “selective hearing.”

You know, that magical condition where you can apparently hear the word “chocolate” from three rooms away, but not someone talking directly into your face.

Except mine wasn’t selective hearing.

It was actual hearing loss.

Tiny difference.

I thought the way I heard the world was normal because it was the only version of the world I had ever experienced. I didn’t know other people could actually hear full conversations instead of collecting random words and building the rest themselves like some sort of verbal IKEA furniture.

Someone could be sitting right next to me having a full conversation, and I would be completely oblivious.

Then they would suddenly say:

“Zoe, did you hear me?”

No, Susan. I did not.

I heard one vowel, a chair scraping and somebody breathing through their nose.

But sure, let me guess what you said.

Most of my life, my family joked that I had selective hearing. Honestly, that phrase pisses me off now.

Because it was never a funny little personality trait.

I wasn’t ignoring people.

I couldn’t bloody hear them.

When I was a child, I used to say it sounded like things were walking around inside my ears.

Which, looking back, is quite a terrifying sentence for a child to say.

But instead of thinking, “Maybe we should get that checked,” it seems the general response was basically, “Children are weird. Anyway…”

I had grommets fitted when I was younger, but they came out while we were on holiday.

And after that, my hearing issues were never really taken seriously again.

The grommets came out, and apparently so did everyone’s concern.

Problem solved.

Except it wasn’t.

I just learned to cope.

That is the thing about children. We adapt to whatever nonsense we are handed because we assume the adults know what they are doing.

Plot twist: sometimes they absolutely do not.

I didn’t know how to explain pressure, crackling, muffled sounds, fluid, pain or distorted hearing. I was a child. I did not have a medical degree or a PowerPoint presentation ready.

I just knew something felt wrong.

But instead of being properly listened to, I was told to get on with it.

So I did.

I watched people’s faces. I studied body language. I filled in missing words. I copied everyone else’s reactions. I laughed when other people laughed and hoped nobody had just announced a death.

Honestly, God knows how many times I reacted completely wrong.

Someone could have said, “My hamster was tragically crushed by a wardrobe,” and I was probably standing there smiling and going, “Aww lovely!”

Sorry to everyone I may have accidentally emotionally traumatised.

The maddest part is that I taught myself to lip-read through a mirror while working as a hairdresser, and I did not even realise I was doing it.

For more than 20 years, I stood behind clients and watched their mouths in the mirror.

I thought I was just good at reading people.

Turns out I was running a full-time lip-reading operation while cutting a bob.

The second that hairdryer switched on, the conversation was gone.

Finished.

Dead.

Evaporated into hot air and hairspray.

So I would look at their reflection, nod, smile, laugh or say “yeah” at what I hoped was the correct moment.

Hairdryer on:

Client: “My husband left me for my sister.”

Me: “Hahaha, amazing!”

Again, I apologise to anyone whose trauma I may have accidentally celebrated over the years.

I became so good at masking it that I didn’t even know I was masking.

My brain had basically created subtitles without telling me.

The hearing specialist was shocked by how clearly I speak considering my hearing loss.

Apparently, I have most likely been lip-reading for most of my life.

Which is impressive, tragic and slightly unhinged all at once.

I have spent decades piecing conversations together from mouth shapes, facial expressions and pure guesswork.

Basically, every conversation has been an episode of Catchphrase.

“Say what you see.”

Except I could not hear Roy Walker either.

Looking back, so many things suddenly make sense.

The conversations I missed.

The times people thought I was rude.

The times I nodded along despite having absolutely no idea what was happening.

The awkward laughs.

The confusion.

The exhaustion after socialising.

The constant fear that somebody had said something important and I had responded with, “Yeah, definitely.”

But this is not only about my hearing.

It is my sight.

It is the ADHD.

It is the pain.

It is the dizziness.

It is everything.

My entire childhood seemed to be one long game of “Let’s ignore Zoe’s symptoms and see what happens.”

Spoiler alert: they did not disappear.

I struggled with what everyone called “growing pains” for most of my life.

Apparently, I have been growing for about 30 years.

Still only five foot tall, though.

Absolutely robbed.

Those pains did not magically vanish. They got worse.

Now I have a medical history long enough to qualify as its own book series.

Doctors ask me for my conditions and I feel like I should hand them a laminated menu.

Fibromyalgia?

Yes.

FND?

Yes.

ADHD?

Absolutely.

Pain, dizziness, hearing loss, spinal issues and several bonus features nobody ordered?

Chuck them in.

I cannot say every single condition could have been prevented if somebody had listened to me earlier.

But I will always wonder how different things could have been if I had been supported, investigated and believed.

I was not good at explaining what was happening because I was a child.

Children do not always have the right words.

They say things like “something is walking in my ear” or “my legs hurt” or “I can’t see properly.”

It is the adult’s job to listen past the words.

Instead, I was expected to get on with it.

And I did.

Because what other choice did I have?

I was my mum’s only child. It was not like there were twelve of us running around in Victorian nightgowns coughing into handkerchiefs.

There was just me.

Yet somehow, my health still felt like too much trouble.

That is what hurts the most now.

I cannot imagine treating my own children that way.

If one of my children tells me something hurts, feels wrong or does not make sense, I listen.

I investigate.

I annoy doctors.

I send emails.

I make phone calls.

I become the human version of a smoke alarm until somebody takes them seriously.

Because I know exactly what happens when a child grows up believing pain and struggling are just things they have to tolerate quietly.

They become an adult who can laugh through anything because crying is inconvenient and mascara is expensive.

I am now waiting for T-tubes to be fitted, and I should receive my hearing aids within the next two weeks.

I will probably need to wear hearing aids for the rest of my life.

Which is both exciting and absolutely terrifying.

I may finally hear what everyone has been saying about me for the last 30 years.

That could be a dangerous upgrade.

I am grateful that something is finally being done.

But I am also grieving.

I am grieving the years I spent believing I was stupid, distracted, rude or difficult.

I am grieving the conversations I missed.

I am grieving the child who tried to explain something was wrong and was not properly heard.

People think hearing loss just means turning the television up.

It is not.

It is pretending you understood.

It is laughing three seconds after everybody else.

It is nodding while internally screaming, “I have no idea what this person just said.”

It is avoiding asking people to repeat themselves because after the fourth time you would rather fake your own death.

It is watching lips until your brain hurts.

It is being exhausted after being around people because you have spent the entire time doing unpaid detective work.

It is feeling alone in a crowded room.

It is being labelled rude when you are actually struggling.

So no.

I did not have selective hearing.

I was not ignoring anyone.

I was a child adapting to a world I could not fully hear while the adults around me failed to listen.

The irony is actually quite spectacular.

I spent my entire life begging people to hear me, and now I am finally getting hearing aids so I can hear them.

Please listen when children say something feels wrong.

Even when their explanation sounds strange.

Even when they cannot describe it perfectly.

Even when it is inconvenient.

Because sometimes the child accused of not listening is the one nobody ever truly listened to.

And sometimes she grows up, gets hearing aids, writes a blog and finally says exactly what she thinks.

Loudly.

Assuming she has the volume set correctly.