Jackson Domenico (13:06)

Sherri Papini went missing in 2016.

Mr. Ballin (13:09)

The story that the world thinks they.

Jackson Domenico (13:11)

Know is that I am a master manipulator. She is California's real life gone girl. It's not me.

Mr. Ballin (13:20)

This was a hoax.

Jackson Domenico (13:21)

Oh, you're only talking now because you.

Mr. Ballin (13:22)

Got caught and could this person be playing you?

Jackson Domenico (13:26)

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Mr. Ballin (14:22)

The next morning was like all the rest, Jackson woke to the sound of muffled footsteps upstairs, which to him sounded like a giant stomping around. Jackson crawled out of bed and dressed for work. Thankfully, his boss was understanding and flexible about all of Jackson's doctor visits. If anything, his boss actually seemed pleased that Jackson had stopped requesting extra time off for music tours. After a stressful drive through morning rush hour traffic, Jackson clocked in and went to his cubicle. Even with his earplugs in, the click of keys on his computer felt like little tacks poking into his skull. Luckily, his work phone, which rang often, could be permanently muted, so there was just a little flashing light to indicate when a call was coming in. At first Jackson had tried to explain his condition to some of his co workers, but they had so many follow up questions and frankly, conversation itself was just so painful for him that he wanted to avoid it. So now he basically avoided all of them. He ate lunch alone at his desk using Only paper or Styrofoam dishes. Anything else was too loud. Before this all started, Jackson had not minded his boring job because he was always daydreaming about new music to make or anticipating a music gig coming up. But without music or a social life to look forward to, his routine became increasingly joyless. Driving home, he couldn't even listen to the radio. He just sat silently inside of his metal box and and tried to avoid getting honked at. Back at his Aunt Cindy's house, he slipped quietly in the back door and went downstairs. Day after day felt just the same. Like he was a ghost trapped outside of life, looking in. Jackson turned on his computer and emailed a few music friends. He tried not to sound bitter, but it was hard when all of his old friends were still making records and playing shows and going to parties, like nothing had changed. Just then, his Aunt Cindy cracked open the door, holding a plate of dinner. She tiptoed inside and then handed Jackson the food and took a seat on his bed. She whispered for him to not give up hope. She promised they would not stop looking for a doctor who could help him. But Jackson just nodded blankly. Then he went to the corner where his favorite Fender guitar lay beneath the sheet. He grabbed it and handed the guitar to Cindy and told her to give it to his cousin Megan, who had just started taking guitar lessons. Jackson had played this particular instrument in every single one of his performances since he was a teenager. But now he couldn't stand to be around it anymore. It was just too painful of a reminder. Cindy looked troubled and just gave Jackson a long hug. And while Jackson knew she meant well, this actually made him feel like an invalid. Jackson was tired of being such a burden to his family. After Cindy left, Jackson began making a list of friends and family to give away the rest of his music stuff to. He wanted someone else to treasure these instruments and the equipment and the records that had brought him so much joy over the years. Whatever Jackson's future looked like, he knew it would have to be lived in silence. Three years later, in the summer of 2006, Jackson stood among a pile of cardboard boxes in an empty apartment. Even though his hearing was just as painful as ever, he had done the unthinkable, moved out of his Aunt Cindy's basement and rented his own apartment in the Harlem neighborhood of New York City. He felt intimidated, but also excited. It had all happened so fast. A couple of months earlier, Jackson's friend Matt had forwarded Jackson a listing for a job opening at the same big media company where he Worked. Despite his reservations. Jackson had applied, and the very next week he received an email that he had been hired. Holding the apartment keys and standing inside of his clean new place, Jackson allowed himself a small moment of happiness. Maybe there were better days ahead for him. And Jackson had another reason to be hopeful. He had heard about a neurologist at Columbia University Medical center, which was in New York, who was renowned for treating rare hearing conditions. It seemed like there was a chance he might be able to help. A week later, Jackson went to the Columbia Medical center for an appointment with that neurologist. Crossing the city on foot with his condition was not easy, but he kept his earplugs wedged in tightly with a thick winter hat pulled down low, and he avoided the busier streets. Jackson spent the day at the medical center. The neurologist ran a battery of tests to assess Jackson's condition. He had Jackson put on headphones and listen to a series of very subtle sounds to chart his range of hearing. Other tests were more mental, like memory games and problem solving. The neurologist also studied Jackson's other senses, like his vision and sense of touch. And so Jackson left the clinic feeling sort of unsure about what had just happened. But he was cautiously optimistic. A couple of days later, Jackson received a call at work. It was the neurologist, and he got right to the point. After thoroughly studying all the test results, it was evident that Jackson's condition was permanent. The neurologist was familiar with Jackson's condition, and unfortunately, there was nothing he or any other medical professional could do to reverse it. Jackson hung up the phone in a daze. Despite everything he had gone through the past few years, he had always held out a small sliver of hope that some doctor out there might know of an experience, experimental surgery or an expensive hearing aid or something that could cure or at least alleviate most of his condition. But here, finally, was the diagnosis Jackson had been dreading. It felt like his fate was officially sealed. Music had always been his reason for living, his passion, his escape, his one gift in this world. And now it had been officially ripped away from him forever. Jackson walked to his apartment like a man on death row. His head hung low as he trudged through the chaotic streets of New York. Gridlock. Taxis honking at each other, hot dog vendors shouting up and down the block, loud musicians playing on every corner. Jackson flinched at the sharp stab of every sound. Back at his apartment, Jackson sat down on the floor and loaded a pipe with marijuana. And then he lit it. He held in the smoke as long as he could. Then leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt like he had reached the end of the road. It had been simply too much pain for too long with no end in sight.

Jackson Domenico (20:27)

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Mr. Ballin (22:12)

A few months later, on Halloween night, Jackson's friend Matt Chambers turned up his collar against the cold city winds as he made his way towards Harlem. Jack O Lanterns glowed from store windows while packs of kids in costumes went door to door shouting for candy. But Matt's mind was somewhere else. Three days earlier, Jackson had not shown up at work, which was highly unusual. Matt called him that night and left a message, but didn't hear back. Today had been Jackson's third day in a row as a no show, and still he had not heard from him. So after work, Matt decided to pay Jackson a visit in person. Once he reached Jackson's building, he pressed the buzzer for Jackson's apartment. He knew Jackson had muted the sound function, but he'd also rigged a light to blink whenever a guest rang. When Jackson didn't answer, Matt assumed he just hadn't seen the light yet. Or maybe he was out somewhere. So Matt decided to go down the block to grab a slice of pizza and wait before trying again. But halfway to the pizza shop, Matt noticed a sound getting louder and louder, Sirens echoing through the streets. Matt looked back towards Jackson's building just as an ambulance raced around the corner, its lights flashing. The vehicle sped down the street and then screeched to a stop as a pair of EMTs hopped out and ran inside the building. Matt felt panicked as he sprinted towards the ambulance. He had a bad feeling he already knew which apartment these EMTs were running toward. Later that week, Matt stepped inside of Jackson's place for the first time in months. The place looked grim. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, ashtrays full of half smoked joints scattered all around, unpacked boxes stacked in corners, and it smelled like the kitchen trash hadn't been emptied in a long time. Matt had been right about where those paramedics were going that day. As Matt was headed to visit Jackson, someone else had already found his friend's dead body inside of his apartment. Jackson had taken his own life. Afterwards, Jackson's aunt Cindy had asked Matt to help go through Jackson's possessions with her so she wouldn't have to survey the apartment by herself. And so, eventually, while they were looking around the apartment, Matt and Cindy went into Jackson's bedroom, then flipped on his computer. Cindy was hoping to find a note of some kind, but the desktop was empty. Except for a few audio files and a document of financial information, everything else had apparently been deleted. Cindy knew that Jackson used to obsessively archive all his recordings, but she wondered if maybe in Jackson's final hours, he decided to just purge everything. Rummaging through Jackson's drawers and closets, Cindy felt disturbed at how her nephew had been living. The place was cluttered, yet also empty. Somehow, Cindy knew Jackson had been struggling, but she hadn't realized how hopeless he had become. Under Jackson's bed, Cindy found a plastic tub stuffed with several dozen manila envelopes. Each was labeled with the name of a doctor he had visited, and each one contained pamphlets of medical information and test results. In a sense, they were a physical record of Jackson's journey through this condition that ultimately killed him. Finally, in a bottom drawer beside the bed, Cindy found Jackson's suicide note. In it, Jackson explained why he had decided to end his life. Her hand shook as she read it, but for the first time, she understood exactly what Jackson had been going through. The neurologist from Columbia University Medical center had diagnosed Jackson with a rare disorder called hyperacusis, also referred to as dst, or decreased sound tolerance. Its defining symptom is the exact opposite of most hearing afflictions. With hyperacusis, instead of sounds being muffled or faint, they are painfully loud. It's like an inverse form of deafness. And once the hyperacusis is full blown, all sounds, all are transmitted at maximum volume. Quiet sounds are loud. Loud sounds are loud. There's no variation, no escape, no cure. Even worse, doctors have no idea what actually causes it. The only shared trait among most patients is a sustained exposure to noise. People with jobs that require them to be around loud sounds for longer than average are at the highest risk, for instance, construction workers, concert staff, and musicians. But most people who are exposed to lots of noise do not get hyperacusis. If anything, they lose hearing over time. Not all cases of hyperacusis are equally painful. Some describe theirs as just uncomfortable and not debilitating. But in Jackson's suicide note, he wrote that his hyperacusis had turned his life into a torment. It had imprisoned him in his body and rendered him unable to enjoy anything. And ultimately, it broke him. It's still unknown exactly how rare hyperacusis really is. The American Tinnitus association estimates that around 50 million Americans, or 15% of the US population, have experienced tinnitus, which is some form of ringing in their ears. The Hyperacusis Network estimates that about 1 in 1000 people with tinnitus will also develop hyperacusis. However, for most people who develop this, it is unpleasant but manageable. But for a select, unfortunate few, the pain is unbearable. Its rarity makes it harder for doctors to diagnose and harder for patients to understand or to explain to the people in their lives. Jackson's story still is not understood. Thousands of musicians perform much louder than he did for decades without medical consequences. So it's not just a matter of using earplugs. The fragile inner workings of the earth remain one of the body's great mysteries. Sadly, Jackson's story serves as a reminder that despite how far modern medicine has come, there's still a long way to go. Follow Mr. Bolan's medical mysteries on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to new episodes of Mr. Bolan's medical mysteries early and ad free right now by joining Wondry in the Wondry App, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify, or by listening on Amazon Music with your prime membership. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey@wondry.com survey.

Jackson Domenico (28:34)

From.

Mr. Ballin (28:34)

Ballin Studios and Wondry. This is Mr. Ballin's Medical Mysteries hosted by me. Mr. Ballin a quick note about our stories they're all inspired by true events, but we sometimes use pseudonyms to protect the people involved and some details are fictionalized for dramatic purposes. And a reminder, the content in this episode is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis or treatment. This episode was written by Brit Brown. Our editor is Heather Dundas. Sound design is by Ryan Pitesta. Our senior managing producer is Callum Plews and our coordinating producer is Sarah Mathis. Our senior producer is Alex Benedon. Our associate producers and researchers are Sarah Vitac and and Tasia Palaconda. Fact checking was done by Sheila Patterson for Ballin Studios. Our head of production is Zach Levitt. Script editing by Scott Allen and Evan Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins. Production support by Avery Siegel. Executive producers are myself, Mr. Ballin and Nick Witters. For Wondry, our head of sound is Marcelino Villapando. Senior producers are Laura, Donna Palavota and Dave Schilling. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr and our executive producers are Aaron O' Flaherty and Marshall Louie.

Jackson Domenico (29:51)

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