'My body reacts in the same way as it would under attack – I am flooded with adrenaline. It is as if I were in the same room as a huge, fierce dog'

For the last 30 years, I have had violent physical reactions to certain noises. Everyday sounds, like someone chewing or a pen being clicked, make me want to hide, scream and put my fingers in my ears.

I feel unreasonable complaining to people about these seemingly harmless sounds, but for me they are threatening. My body reacts in the same way as it would under attack: I am flooded with adrenaline. It is as if I were in the same room as a huge, fierce dog. I am unable to focus on anything but my terror. I often have to hang up on phone calls abruptly, leave my seat and walk around the room, trying to block out the noise.

My phobia began when I was 19 and started work in a busy office. The noise of a colleague next to me who chewed gum incessantly became unbearable. My ears tuned in to every wet, lip-smacking sound until they filled my head. I couldn't focus on my work. This cacophony was joined by another colleague who continually whistled until I was forced, or felt driven, to leave.

My doctor prescribed tranquillisers, which I didn't like – while they numbed my reaction, they numbed me to life, too. I tried hypnosis and cognitive behavioural therapy, but both failed because I was too concerned with ambient sounds to devote myself to the therapy. One therapist eventually suggested I drink alcohol to cope in social situations. This advice isn't very professional, but it is a major coping strategy for me. A glass or two of wine certainly helps me get through a party where I am surrounded by irritating slurps and chewing noises.

The path of my life has been dictated by the sounds around me. I have changed jobs numerous times, searching for the perfect quiet office. I have moved house, too, away from loud music or rowing neighbours. Strangely, I'd love to live near a motorway: the constant hum of traffic would be soothing to me.

My phobia has affected my ability to get on in life. During my final examinations at university, I was doing really well, translating Greek with ease, until the scratching of a fountain pen against paper filtered into my consciousness, bringing me to a halt. During another exam, a nearby pub had a delivery and the sound of barrels being rolled along by whistling deliverymen scuppered any chance of concentration. I discovered afterwards that I was two marks off a first.

During my childhood I remember that my father was quick to fly into a rage if anything annoyed him. I was told that my cries as a baby infuriated him. The sound of me jigging my foot against the table aged three led him to throw his dinner against the wall. The importance of eating quietly, with your mouth closed, was made clear to me, and I wonder now if that is what has caused my phobia. I wonder, too, if my father suffered from the same condition. I tried to broach it with him recently, but he wasn't receptive – my family have generally found it hard to understand my phobia, although they tolerate me putting on music or the television during family meals, to muffle the sounds of chewing.

My biggest regret is that it has prevented me from having a long-term relationship and children. The longest I have been with someone is two years, until the sound of their eating, breathing, just existing in proximity to me became intolerable. I would sneak off to the spare room in the night to try to get some sleep, but it would be interpreted as a rejection of them. It's hard to stay with someone who doesn't want to eat or sleep with you. I haven't ruled out love yet, though. I'm sure there is someone who could accept my limitations.

It took me 30 years to realise that what I have has a name: misophonia, or hatred of sound. When I recently discovered a support forum dedicated to it, I cried for two hours. I felt so relieved, so happy to know that other people – 900 of them on this one site – felt like I did. I wasn't alone, some oversensitive misfit twitching at every noise.

It also gave me perspective. Some sufferers wish themselves deaf, but I don't. I love many, many sounds: the sea, wind in the trees, music, the human voice. Time and experience have taught me that being able to hear is a beautiful thing, too important to sacrifice. I would never wish that away. • As told to Emily Cunningham.

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