I developed tinnitus the same night I was offered my first book deal at the end of 2014. I’d received the news late-afternoon, then went out for cocktails with two friends to celebrate. I remember the evening well: we’d gone somewhere loud but not too loud; I ordered a fluorescent orange drink that I didn’t enjoy. Before I went to bed, I spoke to my boyfriend on the phone. “This could really change your life,” he said.
Sometime in the early hours of the following morning, I woke up with a ringing in my ears that has not gone away since.
Tinnitus often appears out of nowhere. Some describe it as like standing next to the engine of a plane, or caught within a colony of flying bats. The sound I woke with wasn’t so bad: a sort of midpoint between the hiss of television static and the roar of the ocean. At first I thought it must have been coming from my phone, which was usually inches away from my face as I slept. I then searched my room for malfunctioning electronics, before realising with bracing horror that the noise was coming from inside my brain.
The condition can be divided into three categories: subjective tinnitus (the perception of sound where there is none); objective tinnitus (where there is a sound within or close to the ear that another person can sometimes hear); and somatic tinnitus, which worsens with body movement. Mine was the former: a phantom sound. Little is known about what causes it, but one theory is that loud sounds damage the hairs in the cochlea, flattening them like stems of corn after a storm. The hairs normally pick up sounds and, without them, the brain seeks out sounds from other parts of the ear, sending back signals that translate to a perpetual illusory hum. I’d spent many years going to loud concerts and playing drums in a band, only occasionally protecting my hearing with earplugs. I started to blame myself.
The first few days felt long and hard. It seemed absurd to be so troubled by what is basically an annoying sound, but its inescapability and totality was maddening. The world was suddenly bifurcated into quiet spaces, in which I had nothing to mask the tinnitus, and loud spaces, which threatened to damage my hearing further. I couldn’t stop catastrophising: “I will never hear silence again. I will always be too distracted to write. I will be driven mad by loud sounds.” I became anxious and, like 21% of tinnitus patients, I developed suicidal thoughts.
My GP was unsympathetic, telling me it would not go away but I would get used to it – and no, I couldn’t have any Valium. A few days before Christmas, I went to stay with my boyfriend’s parents for the first time. Ironically, there were copies of the Max Ehrmann poem Desiderata all over the house – printed off in the guest room, hanging beside the bathroom sink. It was one of his mum’s favourites; she identified strongly with the message: “Go placidly against the noise … remember what peace there may be in silence.”
I read online studies about tinnitus compulsively. I discovered advice to seek out quiet spaces in which I could place my hands over my ears to get a measure of whether it was getting any better or worse. But this only exacerbated my nerves. On New Year’s Day, I couldn’t stop crying; I felt stuck in an abject state of misery and panic.
I began hypnotherapy, hoping I could trick my brain into not hearing the never-ending noise. My hypnotherapist told me this was not how it worked. Instead, she tried to teach me how to separate my feelings of anxiety from the sounds in my ears, and how to relax; sending me away with audio files of women whispering about the sea.
I began sleeping to the sound of brown noise – named after “Brownian motion”, the random movement of particles in a liquid – replacing one hum with another. I practised progressive muscle relaxation, my antidepressants kicked in and I began the long process of habituation – learning to tune out the unwanted, unstoppable sound.
Just over a month after I first developed tinnitus, I was on holiday in Brasov, Transylvania – a 30th-birthday present from my sister and mum. Towards the end of the trip, the three of us were walking through the mountains, and when I looked back I realised I couldn’t see either of them. I was surrounded only by recently settled snow. There was something about the white of the snow and the ringing in my ears that felt equivalent; blank and unintimidating, somehow. Tinnitus is often described as white noise, but white is achromatic – a colour that isn’t really a colour. I knew then that I’d make peace with this sound that isn’t really a sound, my new version of silence.
That was a decade ago, and these days I’ve learned to accept and adjust. I’d railed so violently against my tinnitus, and achieved nothing. Now I acknowledge what I cannot change, and it doesn’t bother me at all.
In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on freephone 116 123, or email jo@samaritans.org or jo@samaritans.ie. In the US, you can call or text the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline on 988, chat on 988lifeline.org, or text HOME to 741741 to connect with a crisis counselor. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. Other international helplines can be found at befrienders.org
