ON WEARING EARPLUGS
By Jessica O'Connor
 

23% of Americans over the age of twenty-five wear earplugs every night.  

Actually, I don’t know how many Americans wear earplugs, and I am the only one I know who faithfully wears them every night.  I’ve sampled many varieties and colors over the past four years: rubber, wax, foam, dark blue, bright yellow, pale beige, kelly green, clear, fluorescent orange, and creamy off-white.  My current favorite is made of supple foam and is the color of uncooked rice.  The logo on their packaging politely states, in bold letters, the desire of the consumer’s heart, “Quiet Please!”

Even now–as I write–my husband, Brendan, is talking to a friend on the phone, not fifteen feet from where I am sitting; he doesn’t realize how near to impossible it is for me to form a sentence while he’s talking.  Conversational speech is normally conducted at a volume of 65 dB.  Brendan’s friend called from his cell phone, which (when I answered the phone I learned) has unusually poor reception.  This is why–I’ve concluded–Brendan is speaking at a volume of around 75dB.  If he were speaking at 90dB, I could only safely listen for up to eight hours, after which my hearing would begin to be irreparably damaged.  Earplugs, if I wanted to retrieve a pair from my night stand, would be a quick solution, but it sounds like he’s about to hang up.  I’ve been telling myself this for the last five minutes.        

Over the past six months of married life, earplugs have become a major part of our nightly bedtime routine.  My insertion of earplugs signifies the official end of conversation for the day.  Several weeks ago, Brendan and I said our polite goodnights after having had a slightly difficult conversation.  He rolled over to his side of the bed; I remained where I was and lay still, wide-eyed, thinking.  I assumed he would think I had fallen asleep.  After a couple of minutes, he asked, “What’s the matter?” to which I gave a typical response, “Nothing.”  He responded, “Well, then why haven’t you put in your earplugs?”  My stillness gave me away: every night before I fall asleep I reach over to my night stand, pick up my plugs, roll each one individually, and place them, one at a time, in my ears.  My husband has grown accustomed to the barely audible sound of rolling earplugs.  Whenever he doesn’t hear it, he knows something’s unresolved; it’s my signal (often unbeknownst to me) that I still want to talk.  

Earplugs, which improve both my sleep and my marriage, are a regular item, along with bagels and dental floss, on my grocery lists. On average, a pair may last up to two weeks, after which they harden and fail to adequately expand when inserted into the ear.  For a little under $3.00, one can purchase a ten-week supply.  (However, if one is interested in either a silicone custom-fit pair, a pair that changes color with body warmth, or a pair that glows in the dark, one might pay up to $90.00.)  I dish out approximately $2.86 every two months.  $18.00 a year isn’t bad when one considers the many physical and emotional benefits of wearing earplugs.  Being a native of Manhattan, and for the majority of my life a city dweller, I’ve never had difficulty sleeping through noise.  It was only a little over four years ago, when my then-boyfriend John was exiting my life, that earplugs entered it.         

I shared a studio apartment in southern California with John’s mother, Marilyn.  We moved in together several weeks after John and I had broken up.  From the first time John introduced us–at El Puerto, over burritos–Marilyn and I immediately became friends.  Over the years we shared one of the most intimate, exciting friendships I’ve ever known.  Once Marilyn and I were living together, I discovered the enormity of our problematic sleeping situation.  She, as well as several of her sons, had warned me about the loud volume of her snoring (probably around 70dB, which is the volume of a crowded restaurant); however, I was sure I could sleep through it.  After several nights in the apartment, with my pull-out Murphy bed a mere four feet from hers, I realized something had to change.   

Sleeping was impossible.  

I pitched a tent on the balcony; I’d always enjoyed camping.  The eighteen-wheelers on the neighboring highway were louder than Marilyn’s snoring.  I only lasted a night, and then moved back in and resolved to persevere.  I tried putting my pillow over my head, holding down the sides to cover my ears, and positioning my head ever so carefully to avoid suffocation.  It not only didn’t block out enough of the snoring, it also took so much concentration that I couldn’t drift off without letting the pillow slip.  An idea hit me.  I crawled out of bed, pulled three large, square cushions off our tweed couch and laid them on the floor of the narrow hallway that led to our bathroom.  On one side of the hall were two bathroom sinks, on the other, a large closet.  It was the most sound-proof spot in the apartment.  I lay down on my couch-pillow mattress and had the first decent night of sleep since I’d moved in.  

The next morning, Marilyn recounted a story from the night before.  She had risen in the middle of the night to use the bathroom.  When she reached the hallway she saw me on the floor, was struck with guilt (though neither her snoring, nor my inability to sleep were her fault), and was sure that if she stepped over me to use the bathroom I would wake up.  Rather than wake me, she decided to pee in a plastic cup, which she emptied in the toilet first thing in the morning.  It was a true instance of sacrificial love, but we both realized that neither the tent nor the couch cushions were sensible options. We decided to buy a large, loud, cheap fan (a fan’s noise is directly proportionate to its price), and to place the fan between our beds, to operate on full speed each night.  The humming buzz of the fan muffled the snoring, but kept me awake.  Someone–either Marilyn or I–thought of an addition to our plan: the fan would drown out Marilyn and I would wear earplugs to drown out the fan.  It worked.  This was our sleeping routine each night from mid-January until late May, when I left California and moved to Virginia. 

Throughout the four months I lived with Marilyn, earplugs blocked the sounds which would have otherwise kept me awake, but nothing could block the other sounds in the apartment  I didn’t want to hear.  Marilyn and I wanted to discuss–both with each other and with friends we’d invite over–very different things.  I would talk about school, what I was learning, trips I’d taken, basically anything except John.  Marilyn, being a caring, involved mother, wanted to talk–frequently–about her son.  He was living in York, England, traveling throughout Europe, meeting new people, and experiencing a different culture; there was much to talk about.  I tried to listen but was unable to control the depressive effect that hearing about him had on me.  Knowing how heartbroken I was, Marilyn began to talk about him less (at least to me) and whenever friends asked her about John, I inserted symbolic earplugs by escaping to the bathroom until the conversation was over.  

The reckless–thoughtless–way I had abandoned my life to his, is what made hearing about him (is what made moving forward) so difficult.  It seemed that if I didn’t hear about John, or hear from John (I asked him not to email me anymore) I could begin to create a new life, on my own.   I desperately wanted to act as if he didn’t exist–to mentally erase what had happened between us–and as long as Marilyn spoke of him, he was present, and I could not forget our relationship.  However, when I refused to listen, it was only my perception–not reality–that was altered. 

Not hearing about him could not change the past.  

But by blocking what I heard–by plugging my ears–I could create a different reality in which his existence had no power over my emotions.  Even if the world I was creating was a figment of my imagination, it was the world I needed in order to survive.    

Leaving California and moving to Head Waters, an obscure town in Highland County, Virginia (population:87) provided me with a more permanent set of earplugs.  I hardly ever heard about John (or much of anything outside that tiny town, which consists of .06625% of Virginia’s total population).  As a premature baby needs a protective environment in order to properly develop, so I needed that incubating village in which to grow.  I also found something useful to do: Head Waters had a wilderness camp for teenagers at which I could volunteer.  But rather than live in the crowded lodge with the other counselors, I pitched a tent in the woods behind the building.  This provided a healthy balance between isolation and interaction.

The months I slept alone in the woods were invaluable, but I couldn’t escape the need to wear earplugs.  There were no snoring people, no trucks, no fans, and no voices to drown out.  What I needed not to hear were the noises of the forest: the opossums,  the raccoons (I was terrified of both),  the squirrels, who, rustling around at 3:00 AM, sounded strangely similar to large black bears.  One night, hours after I’d fallen asleep, I was awoken by a violent scratching and snorting sound at the corner of my tent, near the door.  Horrified and stunned, I sat up and remained still until it left.  I could never identify what animal–or person–caused the sounds.  I had to choose between one of two things, both of which involved sacrifice: moving inside the lodge (which meant giving up both my beloved privacy and the joy of breakfasting with the birds) or wearing earplugs (which meant giving up the pleasure of falling asleep to the drone of the rain and the song of the cicadas).  

For several days I considered moving inside.  Maybe, as others said, it really was dangerous in the woods.  I realized that if I were to do this, it would mean giving up the hours I guiltlessly spent alone.  Moving inside would place me in the midst of the camp’s numerous other volunteers, and one who is physically among a community is subtly (though strongly) pressured to engage in the community’s activities.  During my first week at the camp, before I had moved outside, I told a female counselor that I’d decided not to join the group that evening in their stay-up-all-night-on-the-mountain-top adventure.  It had been an exhausting day, and I wanted time alone.  I also wanted to sleep.  She chided me for my unsociable attitude, “We’re supposed to do things together, as a group.  Why do you want to be alone?  We’re young.  Don’t you want to have fun?”  What Crystal didn’t realize was the issue of timing.  My first few months in Head Waters were critical in the process of re-discovering who I–the single me–was.  It was a time of therapeutic isolation.   

So, despite the disturbances of the woods, I chose to plug my ears and remain outside.  

Wearing earplugs was, again, a matter of protection and perception.  They enabled me to live in the world I needed–a world free from the pain or fear caused by hearing certain things.  I would never be able to erase John from my life, or remove all threats from the forest, but–through selective hearing–I learned to limit the effects they had on my life.  

In order to experience peace, both in California and in the woods, I had to shelter myself from hearing things that would trigger crippling “what if’s.”  Hearing about John sparked, “What if we had never met?” “What if I had handled . . . differently?” “What if I hadn’t told him how I felt when . . .?”  These were the torturous interrogations that I would never be able to answer.  

Although the scampering sounds squirrels made, as they collected black walnuts from under a nearby tree, were no reason to fear, hearing the noises from within my zipped tent brought immense, unprofitable anxiety.  My phantasmagoric imagination conceived of every possible beast that might be lurking . . . only . . . feet . . . away!

Earplugs, again, came to my rescue in a situation that was beyond what I could sanely endure.  

Last year I was subjected several times a week to another noisy situation that could only be alleviated by earplugs.  The newlyweds who lived in the apartment above mine worked night shifts and, consequently, were home during the day.  They spent the daylight hours doing what most people save for the night: sleeping and making love.  Because the building was a Victorian house that had been converted into apartments, it was hardly sound proof.  Their frequent, lively rendezvous (which caused their wooden bed frame to bang against the wall) made having company over awkward.  Earplugs were the only solution when I was alone (certainly my neighbors were doing nothing wrong; I couldn’t ask them to stop) but plugging my ears during lunch with a friend would’ve been perceived as a strange and rude act.  That which I had come to trust and rely on as the preserver of my peace was unable to help.  

There are times when I cannot control what I hear.  There are also times when I’m not sure what it is I should be hearing.

Currently, I live above a young single mother and her five-year-old daughter.  The child’s father visits frequently, nearly every day.  About three times each week the parents have a massive, screaming, cursing, door-slamming argument. When I first began to overhear these fights I tried to ignore them, through wearing earplugs.  But after a while, I realized that acknowledging the arguments reminded me to be especially kind to the child who is forced to witness such things.  The repeatedly yelled phrases, “Fuck you!” and “Get the fuck out!” are what her unplugged ears can’t block out.  She is too young to know the benefits of earplugs, but in a few years she might begin to lock herself in bathrooms and cover her ears, like I did when people spoke of John.  In the meantime, I’ll set aside my earplugs and listen with her, and when I see her we’ll talk about kindergarten, her new science kit, or her latest best friend.    

Wearing earplugs, which were invented to block out audible bits of reality, may not always be the best choice.  But, nevertheless, I continue to pay Wal-Mart approximately $3.00 every ten weeks to ensure the luxury of selective hearing. 

Even now, as I prepare to go to bed, I know that a pair of cream-colored earplugs, those faithful friends, will accompany me.  

They will lead me into dreamland, shutting out the noise of the night.

And of the past.

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JESSICA O'CONNOR lives in Virginia with her husband, Brendan.  She is a senior, English major, at Mary Baldwin College and hopes to enter an MFA program in the fall of 2005.  Her work has appeared in Seven Seas Magazine. She enjoys writing various forms of creative nonfiction.