28-06-2025
I still have tinnitus 14 years after a big night out
I was 30 and having the time of my life when the ringing started. That was 14 years ago — and I've never had a second of quiet in my brain since.
It happened overnight, on November 4, 2011, to be exact. I'd recently come back from two years travelling the globe with my husband and was setting up a new literary gift business. I'd just had a miscarriage after struggling to get pregnant, but apart from that things were good. In fact things were great. Or I thought they were.
Celebrating being back in the UK, we went to see the band 2manydjs in Brighton with a group of our closest friends. I remember standing next to the nightclub's massive speakers, the sounds blistering beautifully into my head. We drank, we danced and we partied all night.
The next morning I woke to the ringing sound still screeching in my ears. I'd had this countless times before following nights' out but this time it was deafening, and all I could hear. In bed, I turned to my husband saying how loud it was, how distracting. It was all I could focus on. We told ourselves it would go away. Once the hangover had worn off, the screeching sound would disappear too.
But it didn't. If anything it got louder. It felt like an intense screaming that was not just in my ears but deep inside my skull. By the Monday morning I was seriously worried. I couldn't focus on anything, I couldn't settle down to work or think. Trying to distract myself and watch television was a nightmare with the sounds in my head competing with everything on the screen. Even with the volume turned up to maximum, I couldn't hear what Jon Snow was saying over the noises in my brain. It was the last time I would watch TV or listen to the radio for months.
I hit the internet, of course. Googled 'does ringing in the ears ever go away?' and 'is there a cure for tinnitus?' It does sometimes, for some people, but no, there is no cure. There's no real consensus on what it actually is, either, since the exact cause is unknown. It wasn't the reassurance I was hoping for.
A few days later I contacted my GP. She confirmed what Google had already told me. There is no cure. There is no easy solution. And it's a growing problem: tinnitus is on the rise in the UK, with Tinnitus UK estimating eight million people will be affected by the condition by the end of 2025. My GP then referred me to the audiology department at my local hospital. I went to that appointment so hopeful. Surely the hearing specialist would look into my ears and find an obvious issue, some easy fix? With their finger on the pulse of the most recent research, they would have the answer.
But there were no answers. Apart from 'It's tinnitus'. They didn't know why it came on when it did, nor if it would ever go away. Obviously I stood too close to the nightclub's speakers that night, but I'd done exactly that dozens of times before. Tinnitus often starts during times of stress. It's only in hindsight I think maybe the miscarriage affected me more than I realised. The consultant told me I'd simply have to learn to live with it and referred me to an audiology counsellor. That was all they could do.
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In her tiny room, over a plastic cup of water, the counsellor told me her best advice was just to not think about my tinnitus. I wanted to cry. If someone tells you not to think of a purple elephant, well … My purple elephant was large and bright and loud.
For some people, tinnitus comes and goes. For me, it has never left. Not for one second. It has now been 4,986 days of relentless screeching in my ears. Sometimes it pulses, or rattles, or climbs a decibel or two, but it's always there. It's worse when I'm tired or ill or hungover, if I'm stressed or just plain worn out.
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I sometimes wonder if I can remember what silence is. True silence. The air stilled to nothing. The first house I lived in with my husband was in a tiny hamlet in Sussex, an old cottage surrounded by maybe 15 other houses and acres of fields. I remember lying in bed those nights listening to the absolute beauty of nothing. A complete quiet. Pure bliss. It hasn't been easy to accept I may never experience that again.
The nights are still the hardest, when everyone else is asleep and it's just me alone with the sounds fighting for quiet. When my husband snores, I can't wear earplugs to block it out. That just makes the tinnitus more concentrated in my head. I can't do white noise or whale sounds or rain pitter-patter. The focus on trying to not focus on the thing I'm trying to not focus on just gets my heartbeat racing even more. Instead I use distractions. I listen to podcasts until eventually I fall asleep. Serial or RedHanded or Crime Junkie. Or I'll dip into Kermode & Mayo's Take as they always make everything feel better. (Simon Mayo also has tinnitus.)
Socialising can also feel like a chore. The cacophony of loud bars and busy restaurants with bad acoustics (which is most of them) exacerbates the sounds in my head. I now have hearing loss too — perhaps a by-product or the root cause of the tinnitus (no one can tell me which) — and have to wear hearing aids. It means I struggle to hear in these types of places, even with the aids turned up loud. I think twice about accepting invitations before doing a mental recce of the rooms. And when I do go out, I usually wear my hair down to hide the plastic devices behind my ears. My husband is my wingman. He knows, in a new social setting, if I've missed a question that has been asked of me or plain misunderstood. He fills in the gaps, makes sense of the void. He stops the awkward silences.
My friends and family are patient, and will repeat things for me or speak up when they realise I haven't heard. I have two young boys (12 and 10) and they're used to me sometimes missing things they tell me. It's hardest with new people, having to explain and ask them to say things again. It's boring. For me as well as for them.
Yet over time I've learnt to cope with this alarming intruder in my head. The noise barely quietens, but I've become adept at tuning it out. I can't change it, so it's better to acknowledge its presence there — always there — while I try to get on with other things.
This summer I'll publish my debut novel, The Night Lagoon, about a woman trapped in a coercive and controlling relationship five thousand miles from home in a Central American jungle. I gave my protagonist hearing loss and tinnitus to show how isolating and lonely it can be, but also how enlightening. The book's dedication is to 'anyone who feels unheard and for everyone who cares to listen'. I'm so grateful for the friends and strangers who have been so patient with me along the way, hearing my woes and helping me learn to be at peace with this new disquiet.
It's never not there, this soundtrack to my life. But I've learnt to live with it and lived to learn from it — and for that I am truly thankful.
The Night Lagoon by Jo Morey (HarperCollins £16.99) is out on Thursday. To order a copy go to or call 020 3176 2935. Free UK standard P&P on online orders over £25. Special discount available for Times+ members
