Secrets
I'm 47 and My Hearing is A Threat to Society. Content Warning.
I don’t know when it happened. There was no announcement. No gradual fade. No warning from my body like, “Hey, just a heads up, we’re about to stop processing sound correctly.” One day, I could hear. The next day? Absolutely not. I am 47 years old and my hearing is doing whatever the fuck it wants, whenever the fuck it wants, with zero regard for safety, courtesy, or basic human decency. I Can’t Hear You, But Don’t Yell at Me Let me explain something. I cannot hear shit. But also — don’t raise your voice at me. Because now I’m offended. This is a very specific contradiction, and I live in it daily. People will be talking, and I’m nodding along like I understand every word, meanwhile my brain caught maybe three syllables and filled in the rest with vibes. And I don’t realize I missed something until it’s too late to ask “what?” without looking stupid. So now I’m just agreeing to shit I didn’t hear. That’s dangerous. The Jump Scare Problem (Why I’m Always Startled) Here’s how I found out my hearing was officially broken. I’ll be sitting somewhere — couch, bed, chair — minding my own goddamn business. Peaceful. Calm. Then my son will come out of his room and say my name. Not yelling. Not screaming. Just saying it. And I will jump like someone fired a gun in the house. My wig? GONE. Heart racing. Soul leaving my body. And he’s standing there like: “I said your name.” WHY DID I NOT HEAR YOU WALK UP??? How long were you standing there?? Were you watching me??? Because apparently my ears did not register ANY PRESENCE until sound directly entered my face. This is terrifying. My Hearing Has a Proximity Requirement I’ve realized my hearing now comes with conditions. You cannot talk to me from another room. You cannot talk to me from behind. You cannot talk to me casually. You must be: • in my line of sight • facing me • preferably close If not, your lips can be moving and I will hear NOTHING. It’s like my ears need visual confirmation now. Which brings us to the most confusing part of all. WHY CAN I HEAR BETTER WITH MY GLASSES ON?? Explain this to me. I take my glasses off, and suddenly I can’t hear you. Your mouth is moving. I see the effort. I appreciate it. But the sound? Not making it to my brain. As soon as I put my glasses back on? BOOM. Sound restored. What kind of Bluetooth-ass body malfunction is this??? Why do my eyes and ears need to be synced?? Am I lip-reading without realizing it??? Because this feels suspicious. Driving With Me Is a Hazard Now let’s talk about driving. Because my hearing problems do not stop me from doing reckless things. My music stays LOUD. Not “oh that’s a little loud.” LOUD. Because I need to FEEL the sound, not just hear it. Which means I have absolutely driven through town completely unaware that: • fire trucks • police cars • ambulances were screaming past me with lights on. I don’t hear shit. I see the lights and I’m like: “Oh damn, my bad.” Sirens used to scare me. Now they sneak up on me. That feels illegal. Selective Hearing or System Failure? People love to say: “You just don’t listen.” No. I AM LISTENING. The signal is just not coming through clean. This is not selective hearing. This is a system failure. My brain is buffering. And if there’s background noise? Forget it. TV on. Music on. Fan running. You might as well send a text. The ‘Huh?’ Phase of Life I say “huh?” a lot now. Sometimes twice. Sometimes three times. And by the third time, I’m embarrassed, so I just smile and pretend I heard you. Which is how misunderstandings happen. This is how people end up thinking I agreed to things I absolutely did not agree to. Because I did not hear them. Why This Is Actually a Problem This shit is funny — until it’s not. Because not hearing properly means: • I miss details • I miss tone • I miss warnings And that’s not cute. It’s also exhausting trying to keep up. I be tired from LISTENING. The Real Betrayal: Nobody Warned Me Nobody talks about hearing loss like this. We talk about eyesight. We talk about memory. We talk about sleep. Nobody said: > “Oh by the way, sound will stop making sense.” Nobody said I’d need: • eye contact • proximity • reduced background noise • and a prayer to understand basic conversation. My Body Is Clearly Freestyling At this point, I’ve accepted something. My body is no longer following the manual. It’s improvising. Bladder? Wild. Memory? Gone. Eyesight? Rebellious. Taste buds? In a conspiracy. Sleep? Optional. Hearing? Absolutely unreliable. I am one malfunction away from becoming a liability. Final Thoughts From a 47-Year-Old Who Needs You to Face Her When You Talk If you speak to me and I don’t respond, I promise I’m not ignoring you. I just didn’t hear you. If you scare the shit out of me by saying my name from three feet away, you might want to duck or watch my arms, because I might swing. That’s on you.... And if my music is loud and I miss sirens? Mind your business. I am doing my best with the equipment I’ve been given. Conclusion: Yes, My Hearing Is a Threat to Society Because I can’t hear warnings. I can’t hear casual conversation. I can’t hear you unless you’re in my face. And yet, I’m still out here driving, working, parenting, and existing. Which feels irresponsible. But here we are.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
The Version of Me That Almost Was
I found the old notebook while cleaning, tucked behind things I no longer used but hadn’t thrown away. The cover was bent, the pages yellowed, the spine fragile from years of neglect. Inside was a version of me that felt both familiar and distant, like meeting an old friend whose face you recognize but whose life you no longer understand.
By Salman Writes9 months ago in Confessions
I'm 47 and My Taste Buds are a Threat To Society Currently Running a Conspiracy . Content Warning.
I’m 47 Years Old and My Taste Buds Are Running a Conspiracy I don’t know who changed my stomach’s settings, but I would like to file a formal complaint. Because at 47, eating is no longer a casual activity. It’s a medical event. At this point, if I want to eat any goddamn thing ANYTHING — I have to take nausea medication. Not occasionally. Not “if my stomach is acting up.” Not “maybe later.” Every. Single. Day. Sometimes three or four of them motherfuckers in one day because my stomach wakes up already on level 20 for absolutely no reason. No warning. No trigger. Just chaos. I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t offend it. I didn’t eat reckless. I didn’t drink a gallon of hot sauce before bed. And yet here we are. My Stomach Is No Longer a Team Player My stomach used to be dependable. We had an understanding. I fed it, it behaved. Now? It’s unpredictable. Emotional. Dramatic. And absolutely refuses to cooperate without medication like it’s on strike. And the wildest part? My taste buds have decided to change personalities too. Foods I hated my entire life? Suddenly acceptable. Foods I loved? Now suspicious. Explain it. Let’s Start With Onions — THE SWITCH-UP I used to not eat onions. Ever. Not raw. Not cooked. Not hidden. Not “you won’t even taste it.” Absolutely not. Now? I’m fine. Onions are in things now and I don’t even flinch. They’re sautéed, caramelized, mixed in — and my stomach is like, “Yeah, okay.” WHAT. Who approved this change? Who updated the software? Because my younger self would be horrified watching me eat onions voluntarily. Brussels Sprouts: The Biggest Plot Twist of My Life Now let’s talk about Brussels sprouts. I used to look at them like they were punishment. Like they were invented to humble children. But now? You sauté them motherfuckers with some onion, bell peppers, and some good-ass seasoning? I’m tearing them bitches UP. Eating them like they owe me money. Who am I? Because the woman I used to be would NEVER. This is identity theft. Seafood Still Ain’t It (And Don’t Sneak It Into My Mouth) Now let me be clear. I have never been a seafood girl. Shrimp? No. Crab? No. None of that shit. One day my sister says, “Close your eyes. Let me put something in your mouth.” First of all — pause. That sentence alone should have ended the experiment. But I trusted her. Family betrayal always hits hardest. She put it in my mouth. I almost died. Not because it tasted bad — but because the texture betrayed me. I am a texture person. If something is: • sticky • gooey • gummy I am OUT. My body will reject it like a bad organ transplant. I don’t care how seasoned it is, how fresh it is, or how expensive it is. Texture will shut the whole operation down. THIS Is Why I Need the Menu Ahead of Time This is also why — if you ever ask me out — I need DETAILS. Not vibes. Not “we’ll figure it out.” Not “I know a place.” Absolutely not. I need: • the name of the restaurant • the date • the time • and MOST IMPORTANTLY — THE MENU Because I have to study the menu. I need to scan it like it’s a legal document. I need to know: Is there something I can eat? Is my stomach going to revolt? Are there safe foods? Are there hidden ingredients? I cannot walk into a restaurant blind and just “figure it out.” That is not adventurous. That is reckless. My Anxiety and My Stomach Are in Cahoots My anxiety, my PTSD, and my stomach are in a full-blown alliance. They have meetings. They sit down together before I leave the house and say: > “No surprises.” They do not play. If I ignore them? My stomach will embarrass me publicly. So yes I need the menu. And no that does not make me difficult. It makes me prepared. Eating Is Now a Strategy Game Eating at 47 is no longer about hunger. It’s about: • timing • medication • mood • texture • seasoning • and whether my stomach feels like cooperating today Some days it’s cool. Some days it’s dramatic. Some days it’s like, “Absolutely not, try again tomorrow.” This is not a lifestyle choice. This is survival. The Real Conspiracy The real conspiracy is how nobody warns you. Nobody tells you that after a certain age: • your bladder switches up • your memory disappears • your eyesight rebels • and now your stomach and taste buds join the chaos Everything just starts malfunctioning quietly. And you’re expected to adapt without complaint. Final Thoughts From a 47-Year-Old With Trust Issues and Antacids Nearby I don’t know what happens after a certain age, but it feels like your body starts freelancing. Your stomach decides what it will and won’t tolerate. Your taste buds rewrite the rules. Your anxiety becomes the project manager. And you just want to eat in peace. So if I ask for the menu ahead of time, mind your business. If I take medication before I eat, mind your business. If I refuse to “just try it,” MIND YOUR BUSINESS. I am not being dramatic. I am being 47.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
I'm 47 and My Memory is a Threat to Society. Content Warning.
I Am 47 Years Old and My Memory Is in Witness Protection Let me start by saying this so nobody gets confused. Yes, I smoke weed. Not recreationally. Professionally. I own two businesses. One of them is a clothing line that literally revolves around blazz'n up. So yes — I smoke like Snoop Dogg on a three-day weekend. This is not new information. This has been consistent. What is new is the way my brain has decided to betray me at the worst possible times. Because I am 47 years old, allegedly going through perimenopause or premenopause or menopause’s evil little cousin — I don’t know which one it is, but whoever it is, they are messing with my short-term memory like it owes them money. And it’s starting to concern me. The Thought That Never Makes It to the Destination Here’s how it usually starts. I’ll be sitting down. Calm. Peaceful. Minding my business. Then — a thought appears. A good thought. An important thought. A purposeful thought. Something like: “I need to grab my phone.” “I should look that up.” “Let me go get that thing.” So I stand up. And that’s where everything goes wrong. Because the second I leave the room where the thought was born, my brain says: > “We don’t know her.” I walk into the next room and immediately stop. Why am I here? Who sent me? What was the mission? I just be standing there like a Sim whose task got canceled. No memory. No clue. No context. Just vibes and confusion. How the fuck did I get amnesia in three seconds? Did I Just Forget… Everything? And it’s not just once. It’s CONSTANT. I will retrace my steps like: “Okay… I was sitting… I stood up… I came in here…” Nothing. The thought has been erased like it never existed. Now I gotta sit back down in the original spot like I’m rebooting my brain, hoping the thought respawns. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it’s gone forever. RIP to whatever that idea was. The Binge-Watching Problem That Should Not Exist Let’s talk about how disrespectful this has gotten. I will be sitting on my couch: • high • relaxed • eating snacks • watching a whole-ass crime show Engaged. Focused. Invested. Then the show goes to commercial. And suddenly I’m like… “What the fuck am I watching?” Not the episode name. Not the plot. THE SHOW. I forget the NAME of the show I am CURRENTLY WATCHING. I’m staring at the TV like it betrayed me. Is this Alzheimer’s? Is this early-onset dementia? Or is my brain just running on Windows 95? Because why do I need the show to come BACK from commercial for me to remember what the fuck I was enjoying? This feels aggressive. Google Maps Is My Emotional Support App Now let’s talk about driving. I have lived in Kansas City my entire goddamn life. MY. ENTIRE. LIFE. And yet. I still use GPS. Everywhere. Not new places. Not far places. Regular places. Why? Because my brain refuses to retain directions like it used to. Also — highways give me anxiety now. If I can’t get there using: • 103rd • 95th • 75th • or 63rd I’m not coming. That’s it. If your location requires a highway, a ramp, a merge, or God forbid a decision.... send my love. I will not be attending. Because I WILL forget where I’m going, miss the exit, panic, and end up in a different state. Weed Is Not the Only Culprit (But It’s Definitely in the Lineup) Now listen. Yes — weed plays a role. But let’s not act like it’s the only suspect. I also have: • anxiety • PTSD • a nervous system that’s been through some shit • and now hormones doing parkour My brain is managing: • trauma • creativity • business decisions • survival • AND remembering why I stood up That’s a lot to ask. So when my memory taps out, I try not to be mad at her. She’s tired. The Part That Really Gets Me What pisses me off is this: I am still sharp. I can: • run businesses • write • problem-solve • read people instantly • remember shit from 1998 with perfect clarity But ask me why I walked into the kitchen? Absolutely not. That file has been deleted. So Here’s Where I’ve Landed I don’t think I’m losing my mind. I think my mind is prioritizing. And unfortunately, it has decided that: • random thoughts • quick errands • and unnecessary directions are no longer worth storage. Honestly? Fair. Final Thoughts From a 47-Year-Old With a Disappearing Train of Thought If you see me standing in a room looking confused, don’t ask questions. If I forget what I was saying mid-sentence, let it go. If I pull out Google Maps to drive somewhere I’ve been 300 times? Mind your business. I’m not lost. My memory just took a smoke break without telling me.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
The Day I Stopped Refreshing the Page
The Day I Stopped Refreshing the Page For a long time, my mornings started the same way. Not with breakfast. Not with stretching or deep breaths or gratitude, like people on the internet suggest. My mornings started with refreshing a page.
By Salman Writes9 months ago in Confessions
The Kind of Tired Sleep Can’t Fix
I’m not tired in the way sleep can fix. I’ve tried that. Early nights. Late mornings. Power naps that turn into guilt. None of it touches this kind of exhaustion. It lives deeper, somewhere behind the eyes and under the ribs, where rest doesn’t reach. It’s not the kind of tired that fades with eight hours under a blanket—it’s the kind that lingers even after the alarm clock says I’ve had enough.
By Salman Writes9 months ago in Confessions
