From Rave to Raven
The links between PMOS and heightened sensitivity have a confession to make. I’m well into bird watching. One minute I was in the middle of a dancefloor, kick drum pounding through my chest and tequila pumping through my veins. Hundreds of strangers pushing against me, barely able to see through the haze of smoke and strobe lights. What should have been a total cacophony, a sensory overload, I found surprisingly pleasant, despite my usual heightened sensitivity to just about every sight, sound and smell around me. The obvious shift might not therefore be from rave to raven (saw some at the top of Scafell Pike with fellow ravers and can confirm we all got a similar buzz).
But then, a few years later (and, unsurprisingly, deep into my 30s) I find myself scrambling through a woodland at dusk, Nikon binoculars in tow (alongside my dear boyfriend, ever keen and willing to entertain me in such ridiculous endeavours). We reach the top and come to a clearing, jumping up onto a bench and gazing out across the Surrey Hills, eager to see and hear some new tweeters to track on Merlin (IYKYK).
Shortly after pulling my boyfriend’s shorts down and embarrassing him for absolutely no reason, in front of an entire forest of oak trees no less (famously judgemental), I heard a strange gutteral noise coming from the bushes. After establishing it was not in fact my boyfriend’s hushed wimperings, I pulled open my bird Shazam and was met with two beautiful, moving words: EURASIAN. WOODCOCK. My eyes widened, my mouth gawped, my heart raced. I’d seen these guys before in the movies. The kids are making videos of them dancing to trap beats, their weird rotund bodies moving like a breakdancer, while their strange long beaks miraculously seem to stay still!? Magic. And if you don’t believe my words, watch them here. I IMPLORE YOU.
If that wasn’t enough to stop you in your tracks and drop a hunna on some nocs, or bins if you’re in the game, or binoculars if you literally have no idea what’s happening, then you need Jesus. Anyway, back to the woodcock (apparently key words for high Google ratings include cock, so I’ll keep hammering that one home, so to speak)… After a mild freak-out upon hearing such a strange noise and making such an unprecedented discovery, we looked up and saw not one, but two, woodCOCKS piercing the perfect blue sky above us. Their beaks leading the way, hoping to find the perfect trap queen to mate with. I almost cried. Why? Well, there might just be some science behind it…
There are proven links between heightened sensitivity and chronic illness, and for those of us with PMOS, the picture seems to be even more clear. Some people experience what researchers call central sensitisation: the nervous system becomes more reactive, amplifying sensory input (noise, light, touch, pain, fatigue etc.) Whack a few million hormonal shifts, some low-grade chronic inflammation and alterations in the autonomic nervous system (sympathetic/fight-or-flight activity) to the mixing bowl and you’ve got a big old sensitive Sally in the oven. Research then further suggests that these systems all interact in PMOS, contributing to effects on the broader metabolic and hormonal picture, thus and therefore once AGAIN causing a vicious cycle whereby every goddamn bird you see makes you weep.
So while we can’t entirely say that PMOS, or other chronic conditions, directly cause sensory sensitivity, it does create a pretty fuckin plausible pathway where stress systems, inflammation, sleep disruption, pain, and metabolic disturbances majorly influence how intensely someone experiences their body, environment, and woodcocks.
While writing this I took a brief pause to research the links between positive heightened sensitivity and getting, ahem, mash up, alongside negative heightened sensitivity to a siren screaming past you, or someone chewing loudly in your face while you’re trying to listen to the news. Turns out: all not a coincidence.
If, like me, you find a busy office or a crowded supermarket both physically uncomfortable and mentally exhausting, but love nothing more than entering a nightclub, this is not a drill. Context matters - it’s about chosen stimulation vs unwanted stimulation.
So I’m re-coining an already coined term: I am a high sensation-seeking highly sensitive person, or a HSSHS, or actually just SHHH. And while crying upon having a woodcock revealed to me under the night sky (we’ve mostly all been there) might seem insane, I for once thank my PMOS for allowing me to feel so much. Even if that does mean a few more moonies under the moon for my long-suffering boyfriend.