Whilst we haven’t been publishing for that long you may have realised we tend to have a specific schedule, but something caught my eye and I just had to write something about it. On the BBC today there is an article about misokinesia which, for those who hadn’t come across it before, is a condition where the sufferer is adversely affected by other people fidgeting, experiencing intense feelings of rage, torture and disgust. I’d never come across that before, unlike misophonia which I have heard of, which is similar but regarding the intense dislike of other people’s noises, such as eating or heavy breathing.
As someone who is neurodiverse, in my case autistic, being caught in a situation with someone with misokinesia sounds like my worst nightmare (and I am probably theirs!).
Let me paint you a picture…
The lift stalls mid-floor. The lights flicker ominously, and the air gets heavy. It’s just me and another person stuck together in this box of doom. I’m autistic, and the stress has my brain screaming, “STIM NOW!” For those who don’t know, stimming is how I cope—tapping, rocking, fiddling, whatever works to keep me calm and regulated.
But here’s the twist: my lift-mate has misokinesia—a deep-seated loathing for repetitive movements. Basically, my stimming is their worst nightmare. Perfect, isn’t it? Welcome to my personal sitcom.
When Stimming Meets Misokinesia
I start tapping my fingers against my leg, a quiet, rhythmic motion to keep myself from freaking out. It’s not loud. It’s not intrusive. Or so I think.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my fellow passenger twitch. They glance at my fingers, then away, then back again, their jaw tightening. I can almost hear their internal monologue: “Stop. Stop. STOP.”
But here’s the thing: I can’t stop. Stimming isn’t just a quirky habit; it’s how I keep myself grounded in stressful situations. And being trapped in a broken lift with a stranger definitely qualifies as stressful.
The Standoff
I’m trying to stay calm. They’re trying not to lose it. The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.
They shift uncomfortably, and finally, the words tumble out: “Could you… not do that?”
Cue my internal panic. How do I explain that not stimming isn’t an option? That it’s like asking me to stop breathing? I take a breath and try to be polite.
“I need to do this to keep calm. Sorry if it’s bothering you.”
Their face softens a bit, but I can tell they’re still struggling. “It’s just… really distracting.”
And there it is—the classic sensory clash. My stimming, which helps me cope, is triggering their misokinesia, which makes repetitive movements unbearable.
Finding a Middle Ground
In that moment, I realise we’re both just trying to survive this nightmare scenario. So, I try to compromise. I switch to a less visible stim—tapping my fingers against my palm instead of my leg. It’s not as satisfying, but it’s better than nothing.
They close their eyes and take a few deep breaths. I can see them actively trying to focus on something else, probably imagining themselves anywhere but here.
We don’t speak again for a while, but the tension eases slightly. It’s not perfect, but we’re managing.
Lessons Learned from a Broken Lift
This experience taught me a lot about sensory clashes. Misokinesia isn’t something people can control, just like I can’t control my need to stim. Both are valid. Both deserve respect.
But the real game-changer was communication. When I explained why I needed to stim, they understood. When they explained why it bothered them, I tried to adjust. We didn’t solve everything, but we found a way to coexist in that claustrophobic little box.
The Takeaway
If there’s one thing I’ve learned as an autistic person, it’s that life is full of sensory clashes. But with a little empathy, a little patience, and maybe a touch of humour, we can navigate them.
So, to my fellow stimmers: keep doing what you need to do to thrive. And to the misokinesiacs out there: thank you for trying to understand. Let’s all just agree to carry noise-cancelling headphones, sunglasses, and maybe a good sense of humour—just in case we find ourselves stuck in a lift together.
Because, let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time.
AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.
As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.
AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.
For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.
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