I’d heard ringing in my ears before. This time, it didn’t stop

‘Tinnitus can be torturous for anyone, but for someone who worships the first birdcall breaking through a soundless dawn, who owns two dog-eared and underlined copies of Sara Maitland’s A Book of Silence, it felt especially cruel,’ writes Miranda Luby. Photograph: Carol Yepes/Getty Images

One night two years ago, I was lying in bed when I began to hear a high-pitched, electronic hum. The scene that followed would be comical if it wasn’t so traumatic. I roamed around the house in my PJs, frantically pressing my ears against various electrical appliances. It took half an hour to realise the sound was coming from inside my own head.

I’d heard ringing in my ears before, rising then falling, like a one-note crescendo of an orchestra. As a kid, I used to believe the myth it was the sound of dying ear cells, playing a swan song for a frequency I’d never hear again. This was different. This time, it didn’t stop.