My name is Rebecca Morrison.
I'm 52. I live in Manchester with my husband Tom and our two Labradors.
Four years ago, the ringing started.
At first, it was just a faint buzz. Annoying but manageable.
"Probably just stress," I told myself. "It'll pass."
It didn't.
Within six months, the ringing became my constant companion.
A high-pitched screech that never stopped. Not for one second.
Mornings were torture. But nighttime? Nighttime was hell.
I'd lie in bed desperate for sleep while that sound drilled through my skull.
Hour after hour, staring at the ceiling, watching the clock tick past midnight...
1 AM... 2 AM... knowing I had to be up for work in a few hours but unable to quiet the screaming in my head.
Tom started sleeping in the guest room because I'd toss and turn for hours, keeping him awake with my restlessness.
My colleagues noticed I couldn't focus in meetings anymore. I'd lose my train of thought mid-sentence, that piercing ring drowning out everything else.
My daughter asked why I seemed so "checked out" during our calls. I couldn't tell her the truth-that I was barely holding it together, that every conversation felt like trying to talk through a fire alarm going off in my brain.
The truth was simple: I was being slowly driven insane by a noise only I could hear.
Then came that night in March.
3 AM. Wide awake. The ringing so loud I wanted to scream.
I found myself in the bathroom, crying, wondering if this was going to be my life forever. If I'd ever know peace again. If the ringing would be the last thing I heard before I died.