Finally, there is a name for it, this "condition" of mine.

Well, actually, it goes by several names, including misophonia, Selective Sound Sensitivity Syndrome (4S) or hyperacusis. Basically, it's a hatred of sound, not all sound, just a few sounds in particular.

And when it comes to annoying sounds, the main offender is someone chewing with their mouth open (to be honest, their mouth doesn't even have to be open). I can even trace the origins of my misophonia back to my old childhood neighbour Jeff White.

More a nemesis than a friend, Jeff used to eat lunch at my house on occasion during the summer months. My strongest memories are of wanting to stab him in the eye with a fork while he masticated a bologna sandwich into submission.

Just thinking about it now makes me fly into a rage . . . seriously.

I begged my mother not to allow him over for lunch, and even she, a woman who does not suffer from misophonia, agreed the boy's chewing was out of control. For the sake of his vision, Jeff was never again allowed to eat at our family table.

Family meals have always been a Chinese torture for me. The synchronized sound of three mandibles crushing, combined with the smacking of lips, drills a hole in my head. And while I love my family dearly, they are a cruel bunch. Sensing my vulnerability, they often gnash more violently and smack louder just to set my blood to boil.

Many family meals have been eaten with the stereo cranked.

Many meals I have eaten alone.

And it doesn't even have to be live and in person eating. There used to be a commercial on TV with a small child slowly munching a sandwich, I don't know, maybe it was for Wonder bread, but just the sound of that adorable child smacking away ignited my anger like a thousand red-hot suns. I couldn't get off the channel quick enough.

Snoring is also a major misophonia trigger. Lucky for me, everything in my house snores. No, literally, every living thing in my house has a snoring problem. Our old hound snores while chasing imaginary rabbits, mainly in front of the TV (should it ever sync up with that small sandwich-eating child my head will surely explode).

Both our cats snore-loud and incessantly. To make it all worse, my beloved wife, a dear, sweet, sweet woman, saws logs like an ADHD lumberjack. To make it even worser, the old snoring cat likes to sleep on my wife's back. Oh, the humanity!

The experts (good luck ever seeing one of them on Oprah) say misophonia is often triggered by a single event pre-puberty (thank you neighbour Jeff) most likely caused by a sibling. While he didn't start it, my brother Johnny took the brunt of my emerging misophonia. As children, we slept in the same room for years. I recall throwing tennis balls at him during the night to stop his snoring. How bad was his snoring? He'd wake up in the morning thinking he was at Wimbledon.

For misophonia sufferers, going out into the world can be akin to an agoraphobic spending the day at the mall. So many sounds, so many bad situations, like my unnatural fear of being stuck in an elevator with a senior suffering from cottonmouth. I fear their constant pursuit of moisture will drive me to homicide.

What drives my family crazy about my misophonia is that it makes me appear to be a hypocrite of sorts. I know I make sounds when I eat and I snore with the best of them. But my strange noises don't bother me.

Look, I'm not asking for a telethon or even your empathy. I know it's my problem and my cross to bear. But like Warren Zevon once said, "Enjoy every sandwich." Warren, I will, but I'll be eating them alone, if you don't mind.