Tuesday, March 29, 2016

The Zen of Tinnitus Acceptance

In the 1980s I absolutely loved punk rock. I lived in Greensboro, N.C. and struggling punker bands traveling from Atlanta to D.C. for weekend gigs would unload their equipment-filled vans into tiny bars for mid-week performances to pay for gas money for the trip. I would move toward the stage to listen to the raging of tatted, bare-chested men, roaring like aircraft engines, their words almost impossible to decipher. You didn’t need to. You didn’t listen to this music. You felt it. Now in my late ‘60s guess what I get? Can you say “tinnitus”? When it first showed up a decade or so ago I began wearing earplugs, closing doors quietly, and avoiding loud noises in the hopes that at least I could prevent further damage and perhaps turn down the volume a bit. It didn’t work. The stuff the audiol…

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