Authored by J. D. Rider

As he gazed at this photo and grievously wrote, “Those eyes tell a story,” a sense of disgust gripped 23-year-old Wesley Dhadamus. He was right about that. You see the monumental pain projecting from his helpless stare. The pining for a miracle. This hell had taken everything—that was evident.

The good life was a short one for this muzzled-by-noise victim who not by choice but by extreme necessity endures his damned existence as a tragic outlier. Although he looks healthy—athletic, tall, and chiseled facial features—nothing could be further from the truth. A thatch of brunet hair and brown, despondent eyes are signs that something big is off, but not conclusive evidence, as Wesley is the subject of invisible conditions, ones whose situations are begetting constant cruelness as he hunkers down in solitude, his six-by-eight feet hideaway inside a home that’s prison-like, with homemade, soundproofed attributes for loudness hyperacusis, pain hyperacusis (both in catastrophic states, where normal sounds are threatening as loud and painful torturers that worsen his conditions), and then “reactive tinnitus” that worsens every week (ringing otherworldly). He found that insulated room is not effective overall—sounds are just too prominent; there’s no way to abolish them; its soundproof capabilities are marginal at best—so hell is unavoidable, and every day and every night he mourns his former universe. He never leaves the premises since leaving is impossible, and no one understands him.

They frown. They laugh. They show their disbelief: It’s just your ears! Your stupid ears! It isn’t cancer, thankfully, they write to Mr. Dhadamus through their contemptuous dialogue when talking on the Internet or social media. He’s seeking euthanasia, and that’s why they are critical. They cannot fathom such a thing—why one would end their very life for something ear-related. Their snide response to Dhadamus denotes some trends we often see: mocking the disabled; the privilege of the ignorant, and healthy, for that matter; the apathy that marinates.

“I haven’t found compassion or help at all!” Wesley wrote, flabbergasted. “They’re quick to criticize, but they won’t lend a hand. No one understands or cares to understand, which is common with invisible conditions. It hurts they don’t believe me. Instead they actually mock me, that’s the crazy thing. Like, what kind of sick society makes fun of someone who’s disabled? If they were in these shoes I can guarantee that they would want out, too. It’s not that death is wanted, dammit—you want to live; of course you do—but when all that’s left is torture and you can’t move an inch without a consequence, you’re cornered into death, you see? That’s the gist of these conditions when they’re catastrophic.

“Furthermore, what kind of system denies you disability benefits when you’re completely tortured like I am? Belgium does, my country. I tried to get them and was denied. I begged for help and also contacted doctors here and all over Europe for treatments, yet they don’t wanna help me. It boils down to this: if you don’t got it, you don’t understand. That’s okay. But what isn’t okay is the dismissive and arrogant attitudes which write off the disabled. That shows some heavy problems—heart and moral problems.”

Good points, Wesley. And probably all true.

“I wanna stress and make it clear I don’t wanna die, that’s the last thing I want, but if I can’t get help, what choice do I have, you know? I can’t survive.”

He lives in the province of Flemish Brabant, the municipality named Tremelo, which lends its impressive sights to valleys that are picturesque, as if an artist painted them, yellowish and green. He misses nature’s harmony, its lakes and trees and wildlife, its cloudless skies in summertime with baby blue caressing them, its sunrays from its golden star which warm our skin and cradle life, the town and its eclectic mix of fancy architecture, but most of all its citizens. Except the apathetic ones.

Life was good—a precious thing—and then these monsters came along. “You can’t predict your destiny,” Wesley finally realized. “The future sometimes murders you.” That was true, essentially, so then he made the toughest choice that he had ever made: that road toward euthanasia.

“This is so inhumane! I’m hiding in my house but still getting hit by unavoidable noises. Even with the best protection I’m worsening . . . earplugs, earmuffs, my sound-reduction room . . . doesn’t matter. My tinnitus is climbing and climbing and it never comes back down. It’s louder than a blaring jackhammer, a dozen tones that sound as if a violent storm were happening, and then I got the hyperacusis duo on my back, like speakers cranked up all the way at heavy metal concerts, their feedback grating, deafening, blowing out my eardrums with a load of endless pain.

“You know, if I could still engage with life and do stuff, even partially, then I would want to carry on, but talking, eating—everything! Hygiene habits, brushing teeth. A shower, bath, a simple sneeze. Blowing my congested nose and turning pages of a book . . . they’re all off-limits, shockingly! And 30 feet away from my house there’s a busy street with trucks and motorcycles. There’s too much noise everywhere, and if I try to challenge it I permanently worsen. Life is noise—every bit. I sit in limbo every day. I cannot move, with zero funds, since I don’t get no benefits from disability. What kind of life is possible with such a situation? So this is what I’m looking at: dying’s not my want at all; it’s just my need and morbid truth. I’m incompatible.”

Belgium euthanizes almost 3,500 people a year; that’s over 33,000 in the last 22 years (Statista Research Department). That’s quite a number, isn’t it? Three thousand even is. Though on average its population is close to 12 million (Worldometer). Still some giant numbers, and death by choice is tragedy. It’s also real life. Look at Canada, where one in 20 deaths are MAID-related outcomes—that’s Medical Assistance in Dying (Dyer).

Call it what you will, you may not agree with its moral implications, God knows it’s exceedingly daunting to wilfully end a person’s life, but at least the advocates of euthanasia understand the human body has a propensity for extreme disabilities, instead of pretending they’re mental fabrications, or not so bad to deal with. The latter outlooks generate a callous way of seeing things—tone deaf, lost, and ignorant. And selfish, in a way. And Wesley’s quick-to-judge adversaries have proven this; it’s a common thing with hyperacusis.

Some may say these mercy deaths are just misplaced compassion. That’s fair, logical, but doesn’t pardon wantonness towards unforgiving illnesses—that harsh neglect they stumble on, the ones who get misfortune’s wrath, and that’s the real problem. You see, these physicians are ultimately doing what others are too afraid to do, too greedy to elect: providing a solution, as screwed up as it may be (granting death with dignity instead of funding research, and generating treatments). Talk about dysfunction, but still concerted effort. At least there’s the acknowledgement; they’re not just sitting idly, as other countries tend to do (doing nothing, more or less). It’s difficult to understand, and isn’t bettered by the fact that they refuse financial aid for many of these sufferers, or make it near impossible to get some recognition. They can’t get disability; their illnesses aren’t recognized as being disabilities, depending on the country. They’re ushered to the gallows, that’s the morbid truth. Both are killing people, the advocates and strong opponents soiled by these tragic deaths, except they do it differently—one direct, physician-based, the other through neglect.

It’s Ironic, too, that more often than not assisted deaths are Belgian bargains, easier than going after treatments, or trying to survive, and that’s because the European Union’s health insurance card makes euthanasia free (Smith), encouraging the ill to give up living, pretty much, as living burdens families. It isn’t cost-effective. Another screwed up element that shows the broken paradigm.

Opponents of assisted deaths uphold religious judgements (Wesley himself was raised as Christian, also contemplating death from such a point-of-view), that makes sense, a righteous thing, although there is a glaring fact: that folks are often hesitant, especially religious ones, to think a disability can be so bad or torturous that seizing death is preferable to holding fast to living life. They turn to Scripture’s soothing words and warm interpretations, like God is just and merciful, and Doesn’t give us obstacles too big for us to handle, commonly drawn (and some say misquoted) from 1 Corinthians 10:13, that God is faithful; he will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able. Somewhat similar. They also cite Perdition’s wrath, and there they have a point. After all, what good is dying if you’re going to Hell? Makes sense, doesn’t it? That Only Jesus saves us. That If your death is coming soon, make sure you have accepted Him. Any person can. Yet dying is a tricky thing when you’re the instigator. A risk for your departing soul. Most Christians say that doing so is murder/sin/contemptible, breaking one of the Ten Commandments. That isn’t good. Christians have different thoughts on suicide, some saying it’s a one-way ticket to Hell, others saying no, your destination to Heaven or Hell is solely contingent on whether you have security in Christ (salvation), and that Once saved, always saved can’t be undermined. That’s more comforting, if you are a Christian, but still with the uncertainty it’s daunting to assess.

But also there’s psychology, and suicide and euthanasia have some stigmas in the mix, which say derangement beckons them, or mental types of obstacles (Wesley’s haters second this), when no, they’re wholly physical—bad conditions body-wise. The terminals are recognized, and mostly they’re forgiven, right? Like cancer, for example. Assisted death for such a thing is less formidable, at least that’s what the critics say. And if a person’s bad disease is one that isn’t terminal, it brings a giant blind spot. The critics scoff and criticize. (Why choose death? You’re still alive! Dhadamus would disagree: I’m almost dead in every way!) Or they look the other way. Although they’re not admitting it, they’re saying those like Dhadamus should hide and suffer in a room for 60 years perhaps, doing nothing, crying out, and facing pain and worsenings. They’re cut off from society, they’re fully incompatible, in limbo from their aural hells as time unfolds in endless gloom; they’re watching paint dry every day, while also getting tortured, too, since sounds are sovereign, everywhere. They can’t get disability, or treatments for their suffering. Quite the pickle, isn’t it? And often they get disbelief and unrelenting apathy. That’s the case for many folks, and why they’re often minimized. No wonder people suicide, or go for euthanasia: the weight is insurmountable, with all cards stacked against them. And people cannot understand the truth of these conditions, how unforgiving, horrible, or absolutely torturous that tinnitus and hyperacusis are for the unfortunate. They need some education. It circles back to Wesley’s point: If they were in these shoes I can guarantee that they would want out, too.

But still, it is a choice, that road toward euthanasia, one that Wesley had to make.

He wrote his story solemnly to trace how life had come apart, hobbies/interests/everything erased and unredeemable, euthanasia’s resolution seeming so appropriate (in Wesley’s mind, conclusively). And thinking of his former self, pictures haunt his battered soul.

“To prep for a trip to Brazil, I got a COVID-19 vaccine, which triggered all of this. Before that I had had mild tinnitus for 11 years. I got it from gaming with headphones and exposures to loud music. It was low and stable, though; I could barely hear the ringing, and then the vaccine blew it up and started hyperacusis, too. I know it was the vax.

“On the airplane my ears hurt a lot, and it wasn’t like the normal pain that people get from changes in air pressure; it was something which had broken, coming from deep inside the ears, like nothing I had ever felt. By the time I hit Brazil it thankfully subsided, except during a few car rides. It hurt like the pain of a bad ear infection, because the rides were noisy, but I didn’t think about it when I got back to Belgium. Everything was normal then, ‘til I went out to a party with a friend, that was. I was only there an hour, but when I got home my tinnitus was roaring. I turned up the TV to try to mask it and went to bed.

“The next day I woke up with extreme pain in the ears. Everything sounding louder, too. I went to a doctor and he gave me bad advice, saying I could go outside and expose to noises. I did, regrettably, and he also prescribed clonazepam, a benzodiazepine for anxiety. But every time I went outside my T would spike a lot, and I didn’t know what was happening, but it was scary stuff. From the get-go I wish I had known to hide away in silence.

“Becoming more and more disabled, both from sounds and the stupid med, I started to stay in my room and play some video games, trying to distract, and did some fitness stuff in my garage. But every month my tinnitus was going up and then my luck ran out about a year ago. I dropped a big workout plate (5 kg). It made my symptoms worsen, a permanent reaction. Distracting was impossible then. So I wore earmuffs and earplugs every day religiously since sounds were hurting more, both to no avail. I could not escape the sounds of life.

“My quality of life is beyond horrendous. I only sleep a few hours each day. All my hobbies are gone. Going to the pub, playing pool with friends, throwing darts and drinking beer. I used to walk daily, 5km. I was a big gym fanatic. I’ve gone from 72 kg to 48 because it worsens me to eat. I lost half of my family because I got sick. Two of my best friends left and a lot of people who don’t understand or believe me. I lost my girlfriend. I lost the chance to go to my sister’s wedding, watching my niece grow up, just going outside to touch the grass and breathe the fresh air.

“Every little freedom I had is gone now, and I’m living more in prison then a real prisoner. Even they can step outside, talk and do some things. I can’t. And I don’t even know if I’ll get accepted for euthanasia, that’s another thing. My luck, likely not.”

But if it does happen, then what? He can only imagine such a thing, lying flat with his sweaty back and palms against the crinkly, painful-to-hear examination table paper stretching from end to end, a johnny gown over his body as he stares at the ceiling and hears ungodly tinnitus, thinking This is it! This is really happening! Oh my word, it’s happening! There’s panic in his saucer eyes, there is no turning back now, no content alternative where torture isn’t roasting him. And yet it’s also comforting. The room itself—awash with brilliant white, as one might expect from Heaven’s soothing entrance—has angelic entities: the doctor and the nurses who are stern but warmly positive. And then the great escape: the barbiturate anesthetic racing through his veins until the darkness swallows him when consciousness is lost. So then what happens to the man? God only knows. It’s scary stuff to think about. Horrifying, honestly. Will I receive forgiving light or unforgiving darkness? A “Hi” from God or Lucifer? Joy or sorrow? Deep regret? Or will I even know? Will I even be? Wesley doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know, hates to dwell on such affairs, although the guy is logical, and therefore what he does know (and hates it all the same) is Dammit, this is the way the dice has dropped and life has screwed me over. It isn’t fair at all! Why me, for Heaven’s sake? Where’s the f—ing mercy? I’m only 23!

And that’s the gist of it: why tortured Wesley Dhadamus is bent on euthanasia, becoming just another stat since there are no solutions; no treatments to provide relief or give his life a second chance. His downfall is a tragedy, his lack of help indicative of broken views and rocky roads that need reorganized. Really, in a nutshell, they represent rejection, an outlook uncompassionate, a view into the world’s heart.

If someone like Wesley doesn’t deserve acknowledgement for disability benefits or even euthanasia, who does? (Is he not a product of extreme suffering? Physical imprisonment?) The truth is, they all do; each deserves acknowledgement. But like Wesley said, it’s an uphill battle for invisible conditions, and that needs to change.

REFERENCES

[1]. Number of official assisted suicides in Belgium 2002-2023. Statista Research Department. 2024. https://www.statista.com/statistics/1098051/number-of-euthanasia-instances-registered-in-belgium/#statisticContainer.

[2]. Belgium Population (LIVE). Worldometer. 2025. https://www.worldometers.info/world-population/belgium-population/#:~:text=The%20current%20population%20of%20Belgium,latest%20United%20Nations%20data1.

[3]. Dyer, O. Assisted dying now accounts for one in 20 deaths in Canada, but rate of growth slows. BMJ. 2024 Dec 17;387:q2831. doi: 10.1136/bmj.q2831. PMID: 39689945. https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/39689945/#:~:text=of%20growth%20slows-,Assisted%20dying%20now%20accounts%20for%20one%20in%2020%20deaths%20in,doi%3A%2010.1136%2Fbmj.

[4]. Smith, W. J. Foreigners Go to Belgian ERs for Euthanasia. National Review. 2016. https://www.nationalreview.com/corner/foreigners-euthanized-belgian-ers/.

DISCLAIMER

*While Hyperacusis Central does NOT condone euthanasia, we’re presenting the fact that many with this condition feel pushed to end their lives. It is the nature of the beast, and for educational purposes it is very necessary to communicate the devastating fallout that it does have for some. If you or anyone you know is in need of assistance due to suicidal thoughts, call or text 988 for the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline. You can also chat with 988lifeline.org. Or text MHA to 741741 for the Crisis Text Line. Or, for a comprehensive list pertaining to different countries, visit the following link: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines. It is important to remember that you’re not alone in this, and help, if sought upon, is there for your consolement.