Welcome to The Buzz
A space for real stories, honest reflections, and small victories from life with tinnitus and hearing loss.
Here youâll find comfort, perspective, and maybe even a laugh or two as we learn to live a little more peacefully with that damn noise.
The Not So Funny Side of Tinnitus
By Marie
Spoiler: I couldnât even find the funny
Disclaimer:
I am, without question, the worst historian youâll ever meet. I canât remember what I had for breakfast, let alone confidently explain what happened in 1478 and why everyone was wearing tights. I freely admit my ignorance. Anyone with a GCSE, a degree, or even a casual interest in history will spot inaccuracies immediately.
Those of you fluent in Monty Python will no doubt mutter âthatâs not how it happenedâ at your screen. You will be correct.
None of what follows should be taken seriously, medically, academically, spiritually, or otherwise. I wrote this purely for entertainment. And possibly mild emotional release.
Right. Letâs begin.
Ah yes... My twat-faced tinnitus.
Turns out, itâs been annoying humanity for quite some time.
Long before white noise machines, mindfulness apps, or well-meaning people telling you to âjust ignore itâ, tinnitus was already making itself thoroughly at home in human heads. Like an uninvited guest who arrives early, eats all the good snacks, and refuses to leave.
Ancient Egypt clocked it first. They were very good at clocking things. Pyramids, cats, afterlife admin. Somewhere along the line, someone said, âI keep hearing ringing,â and everyone else nodded gravely and decided it must be the gods.
The Greeks got involved. They wrapped tinnitus in mythology, philosophy, and probably olive oil. Aristotle likely had a theory. Hippocrates probably prescribed something involving leeches, goatâs milk, or fresh air. The Chinese wrote about it too, linking it to energy flow, balance, and the bodyâs internal politics.
All very poetic. All entirely useless if your head is going eeeeeeee at 3am.
Fast forward a bit.
Tinnitus, clearly missing the attention, refuses to take the hint and go do one.
Now imagine itâs 1478. Edward IV is on the throne. Everyone looks cold. Hygiene is optional. You mention, casually, to a friend that you hear sounds that no one else can hear.
⥠Big mistake âŹ
⥠By lunchtime, the whole village knows. ⥠By dinner, youâre suspicious. ⥠By Thursday, youâre a witch.
People are very uncomfortable with things they canât see, hear, or fix. Especially in the Middle Ages, where the official response to unexplained phenomena was usually fire.
You try to explain itâs just a noise. A ringing. A buzzing. A sort of hiss. You mime it. This does not help your case. Someone gasps. Someone crosses themselves. Someone fetches a priest who definitely does not have tinnitus and therefore cannot relate. You are accused of consorting with demons. Or fairies. Or Satan himself, who apparently communicates exclusively via high-pitched internal whistling.
Could be worse, you think.
It will be worse, I say.
Because whilst youâre being labelled a witch in England, somewhere else things are escalating rapidly.
Hop over to another time, another place. Same tinnitus. Same noise. Different interpretation. Youâre not a witch here. No no. Youâre possessed. Or mad. Or morally weak. Possibly all three. Youâre locked away âfor your own goodâ. The ringing continues. Obviously. Tinnitus has never respected authority. Doctors poke you. Philosophers debate you. Religious leaders pray at you. None of it works. The noise carries on, smug as ever.
Centuries roll on. Humanity advances. Science improves. We invent things. Important things. Trains. Telegraphs. Eventually, headphones, which feels like a personal attack in hindsight.
By the Victorian era, tinnitus is still not having a great PR moment. Youâre not a witch anymore or working for the devil, which is progress, but you are âdelicateâ. Or âhystericalâ. Or âoverly sensitiveâ. Especially if youâre a woman. Especially if you complain.
Men are told to toughen up. Women are told itâs their nerves. Everyone is told not to fuss. Some are sent to seaside retreats. Some are bled. Some are prescribed rest, which is extremely difficult when your skull is doing its own impression of a kettle.
Then comes the modern age. At last, science steps in properly. We get words. Diagnoses. Audiologists. Pamphlets. Progress!
Except now the main advice is:
âYouâll get used to it.â
Which is just historyâs way of saying, âGood luck with that.â
And here we are. Today. In an era of MRI scanners, smart watches, and fridges that can tell you youâre out of milk, we still donât fully understand why tinnitus does what it does.
We know more, yes. We believe people now, mostly. We donât burn them or lock them away. Thatâs a win. But tinnitus itself hasnât changed. Itâs still the same ancient nuisance. The same invisible, unshareable experience.
The same thing that makes you feel dramatic for mentioning it and lonely for not mentioning it.
So⊠Have We Learnt Anything?
History shows us that tinnitus has always made people uncomfortable. Not because of the sound itself, but because of what it represents: something invisible, personal, and impossible to share. We no longer accuse people of witchcraft or madness. Progress. But we still tell them to ignore it, downplay it, or be grateful itâs ânot worseâ. The language has softened. The misunderstanding hasnât entirely disappeared.
What history asks of us now is simple.
⥠Believe people.
⥠Stop minimising.
And recognise that just because something canât be heard by others doesnât mean it isnât loud.
So when someone says, âAt least itâs not life-threatening,â remember that once upon a time, it very nearly was.
And that is not because of the noise itself.
Itâs because of how people responded to it.
And thinking about it, that might be the least funny part of all.
Take care
Marie
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