I haven’t got any money.” I woke up in the early hours of July 31, 1997, to hear my flatmate Jon shouting. I knew precisely what was happening. We were being burgled. As a child, I had always imagined hiding under the covers at this point. But I couldn’t — Jon needed help. I leapt out of bed and felt for my bathrobe.

As I went towards the door, it swung back, and I was struck hard across the face with an iron saucepan. Splatters of blood hit the floor before I did, as my teeth split my cheek. When I was on my hands and knees, the men began kicking me. After countless blows, I began to fear they might not stop.

The next day, after a surgeon had sewn up my face, my five-year affair with sleeping pills began. My posttraumatic stress disorder was like an unwelcome wellwisher that wouldn’t shut up about the ordeal. I broke down as I described the terror I felt to my GP. Sobbing, I discovered, is almost guaranteed to get you a prescription, so they can get rid of you. The pills I was given, zopiclone, were marvellous. I was now in a new flat, and I started taking them, one per night, to help me sleep.

Within eight weeks, in a spirit of defiance towards my attackers, I came off them. But 18 months later, when I moved to London, I started to have panic attacks. Gasping, crazed, hysterical ones. It was a delayed reaction. One evening, as I lay sweating and palpitating, I remembered that I still had a few of those old “sleepers”, so I took one. Minutes later, I felt deliciously relaxed.

I went to see my new doctor, who gave me the drug I wanted. When he argued against repeat prescriptions, I became manipulative. I pretended I had lost prescriptions, and faxed over requests to avoid interrogation.

As months became years, my tolerance hardened. From one 7.5mg tablet per night (the recommended limit), I started taking two, three, four and, ultimately, five. It soon ceased to be a nocturnal habit — I began to take zopiclone the minute I finished work. Daytime became a necessary evil, to be endured until the euphoric bliss of 6pm, when I could feel good again. I fetishised those little white pills.

Friends and family knew I was taking them, but few realised the extent of my problem. Like all addicts, I was secretive. If anyone caught me swaying or slurring my words, I would pooh-pooh their concerns. I knew I was addicted, but with typical junkie arrogance, saw no cause for concern. My liver wasn’t failing, I wasn’t bankrupt or about to be fired — so what if I had memory loss, bad balance, depression, trembling hands and a foggy head?

In the end, the decision to clean up wasn’t mine. This is why, despite the questionable prescribing practices of my doctors, I am now thankful I had to go to them for my fix. If I could have rung up a dealer and paid him 50 quid, I would still be hooked. Instead, I moved again, and my new GP prescribed amitriptyline — an antidepressant that also quells anxiety — and ordered me to reduce my dose of zopiclone by half a pill each month. I shook with anger, but since sleeping pills are less easily available on the black market than class A drugs, I had to give in.

With lower doses came gnawing cravings and horrifying nightmares, every night, for months. Despite having no support groups to attend (prescription druggies have far fewer services than other addicts), I eventually grew accustomed to my new dosages. After nine exhausting months, I was reduced to rubbing my final month’s half a pill onto my gums so it would enter the bloodstream directly.

My first pill-free night fell, rather poetically, on the fifth anniversary of the burglary. When it came, I ran a bath and did something I hadn’t allowed myself to do since the attack: feel. Lying in the tub, I let my suppressed sadness and vulnerability lap over me, and I remembered a feeling I’d had that awful night. After the burglars left, I had sensed a wall of unmanageable feelings that was about to bury me. I had resisted it. Because I had refused to face the reality of the situation and fall apart in the moment, the terror of it all had battered me even more. The pills had prevented me from realising the obvious — that because I had been asleep when the burglars broke in, my subconscious had connected being relaxed with being in danger.

I slept okay that first drug-free night and, with a new-found determination, have kept it up. Incredibly, in the four years since, I have rarely thought about sleeping pills at all. I’ve been too busy feeling.

ZOPICLONE THE FACTS

- Zopiclone (also sold as Zimovane or Zileze) is a hypnotic, used to treat insomnia. It belongs to the new generation of hypnotics, known as Z drugs, that includes zaleplon and zolpidem. These were believed to be less habit-forming than benzodiazepines such as Valium or nitrazepam. Zopiclone is now the most frequently prescribed hypnotic.

- The medical profession reports an increasing number of patients displaying psychological dependence, withdrawal symptoms and increasing tolerance levels.

- Common side effects include taste alteration (dysgeusia), dry mouth, drowsiness, headaches and fatigue.

- Less common side effects include constipation, diarrhoea, nausea, dehydration, blurred vision, impotence, anxiety, depression, loss of coordination, abnormal behaviour, hallucinations, aggression and nightmares.

For more information

Contact the Council for Information on Tranquillisers and Antidepressants (0151 932 0102) or the Battle Against Tranquillisers (0117 966 3629).

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