When I was seven years old I cried myself asleep to the sound of my father chewing scrambled eggs in the living room which was right across from my bedroom.

Eleven years later I found myself coming home and writing long goodbye paragraphs to all of my friends because the sound of a random sophomore biting his fingernails in English class somehow managed to drive me past my breaking point, and I was more than ready to die.

I never understood it.

I'm not a very emotional person, in fact most people find me quite stoic. It's rather difficult to make me extremely happy, or sad or angry...

So why was it that the moment someone pulled out a piece of chewing gum, a friend could instantly become my worst nightmare?

Why was it that by fourth grade, I could no longer eat meals at the same time as my family, unless I sat in the kitchen blasting hour-long "battle music" compilations through my wired headphones.

It didn't make any sense.

There was always this scathing voice chanting the same "You're insane, you're insane, you're insane-" through my head over and over again.

Why was it that at nine years old I despised my parents for taking me out to eat at restaurants?

"How can you be so selfish?" "You spoilt brat." "What's wrong with you?"

I tried to explain it to my parents once. We were on "vacation" in Canada, but even vacations had been poisoned by my insanity. I asked them if they could please "Not chew so loudly" because it made me "Very upset", which was quite the understatement.

No. Not upset. It made my blood boil, my pulse elevate, tears would begin to form and all of a sudden it was as if some other entity, some demon, would take over my body and say or think the cruelest of things in order to make the torture go away. But words cannot fully encompass what I feel.

They laughed in the face of my request, and my father decided to chew on his donuts even louder to mock me. So, I locked myself in the hotel bathroom and silently cried on the cold, tiled floor while digging my fingers into my arm until they broke the skin.

I was twelve years old, and still, nothing made sense.

And then the Internet graced me with a label for my strain of madness.

Wiki calls it Misophonia a.k.a "The hatred of sound."

And although I had a name for my crazy, I didn't have a reason why. I've had therapists completely brush it off to the side when I tried to bring it up because this disease was so obscure and so new.

"Try to just ignore it." "Have you tried deep breathing?" "Think of something else"

They didn't understand, and neither did I.

I still don't understand.

Regardless of whether you are a fan of the Twilight book series or not, there is one opinion about the series that I have brought up in discussions that most people tend to agree is quite well done. I'm not sure whether Stephanie is the first author to write in a style of directly including the reader, but she is definitely one of the most well-known authors to introduce a new sub-genre I've dubbed "immersive fantasy."

"Immersive fantasy" is a writing style that takes the reader of the book and fully immerses them in simple wording to create complex imagery, extremely detailed descriptions of characters, creating a lukewarm main protaganist that the reader can easily relate to or put themselves in place of, and create simple references to the real world that doesn't break this immersion.

The first book of Twilight is approximately 500 pages. Even as a casual reader myself, I was able to complete this book in only a few hours. Harry Potter took me nearly a week, and don't even get me started on the Wheel of Time and Lord of the Rings. So, how is it that this book can be completed very quickly? Well, it ties into the ability for the reader to immerse themselves in the writing.

In the nicest way possible, Stephanie Meyer's wording and sentence structures are basic English 101. Her logic in her writing never becomes more complicated than "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog." This simplicity helps her story come to life. Readers aren't distracted by unfamiliar words, strange word dynamics, or other similar complexities that would distract the reader or take the reader out of the story. It the same as when you have been playing a video game for hours, but then you come to a level where you die repeatedly. It completely takes you out of the story and usually turns you completely off from the game.

Bella is a bland character. Meyer seemed to go out of her way to create a character without many physical descriptions, no special abilities, and seemed to be quite a normal teenager being clumsy, insecure about themselves, and overthinking every little thing. The reader can easily step into the story as the protaganist, pretending it is they themselves who is being pursued by vampires and werewolves. Bella is completely relateable because she is no one in particular.

However, to oppose this bland character, we have very detailed descriptions of the other main characters from what they are wearing down to what their breath smells like. This further pushes the reader into the role of protaganist, because you are able to easily imagine what it would be like to have Edward standing in front of you. Other important characters are seen as interesting people with mysterious backstories which implore you to turn another page to discover more about these people.

This is also an explanation as to why the movies were... lacking. Bella was never meant to be embodied by any one person, and you can't truly experience the other characters as they were meant to be with what they feel like, smell like, and the sensation of interacting with a real human being. They had to overplay the other characters while trying to have Bella have some type of personality other than a damsel in distress. I believe the Twilight movies would have actually done a lot better as a first-person experience, like in Hardcore Henry. An experimental movie genre that places the viewer in the hot seat as the main character.

Many people are against the Twilight series, and I fully understand their plight with Stephanie Meyer. I also understand why the Twilight series has quite a large fan base. However, which ever side you are on, we can eventually agree that Stephanie Meyer's writing style is part of what makes the books immersive and leave you sitting in the same chair for five hours as you finish one page after another.

I'm not going to apologise for the fire and grindstone that burned through your facade showing the leaks and rot that hid underneath. I'm not going to apologise for the anger and pain that was caused when you poked the slumbering beast that laid quietly in its cage. If you stand proud on a floor of decay and mold I will stand firm on a pile of bones and blood. Let the fury rain down on me burn the bars and chains that bind me and deal with the consequences of the missteps and lies that have warped your mind that was once as clear as glass. I'll watch from a crouch waiting to spring once you run and you'll wait to run till the fire burns holes in your soles teaching into your soul and tearing you down. If the end is coming, let it be in flames that we fall.

They say to ignore them. I try. Draw a line, like in the sand searching for a wave to wash any evidence away. This one wasn’t skinny and she had white teeth, which I found odd. Most of them have baggy clothes and mustard teeth, somewhere between the color of American yellow and stone ground.

“Darlin’.” She called to me, smiling, all sweet, as if we were beau’s, only she doesn’t know I don’t take kindly to that sort of sugaring. I’d rather she had said point blank; level, “Look, I’m in a bind and I hate to ask. Could you spot me five dollars for the bus?” Then it could be true or it could be a lie, but I’d feel much better about my five dollars leaving my pocket if she could keep it cold, simple, like at the bank. “How can I help you today; fives, tens or twenties?”

So this morning I kept on walking on my island, pretending the same way she pretended, unable to see the shipwreck but tonight I feel her warmth as if she is in the bed with me, twisting up my covers and the cause of my sweat. Since she is close, I decide it might be right to offer her my pillow. It’s in the shape of a boomerang and doesn’t know if it is coming or going, like her, I suppose. It cradles me, the back of my head, my neck and shoulders and as I drift, allows me to forget the execrable and remember the exemplary, waking with me in reward. And I wish she would take it, but she doesn’t because she is gone. I don’t think of her as is advised, but rather look around the room one last time just before falling asleep on my boomerang with no thought other than the solid ceiling above me, the cold floor beneath me and the walls that defend me from the indefensible.