Divergence

Someone is speaking at the lectern. There’s not enough room in my brain for whatever it is they are saying. An old man in front of me coughs every few minutes. Children tap their feet, whisper when this will be over, crumple paper. Parents shush. Teens in the balcony smack gum. Two ladies at the back murmur. Someone kicks a metal water bottle, picks it up, clicks the lid shut. I hear and feel my starched collar rubbing the hair on the back of my neck. My hearing isn’t great — it’s fairly damaged, actually. The problem is that every one of these sounds arrives with the same priority as the speaker’s voice, and my brain won’t let any of them go. Each one lands like a small, sharp weight. My heart rate ticks up with every addition. For most of my life I assumed this was just how rooms worked. That the stress was a character flaw I could train away with stoicism and “toughness.” I got good at the performance. Calm under pressure became part of my identity and people noticed. A coworker…