“Do you use a lot of hairspray?” This question didn’t help my confusion over where the hell I was. I was lying down but could see only bright lights above me. I tried to move but my head was restricted and something hard was choking my throat. I could feel my body but my right arm was in extreme pain. “I don’t use hair products,” I replied. “That must be blood then,” said the woman and went off.

I noticed a camera, with a man attached, pointing it in my direction. As an actress and comedian I’d normally see this as a prime PR moment but, knowing that my head and God knows what else was covered in blood I didn’t feel joyous. He was from the BBC and happened to be at the hospital filming a documentary called Trauma. He told me that I’d been hit by a car, suffering “some broken bones”. A nurse later confirmed that I had broken my collarbone and a “bone in my neck”. Not being hot on biology, this didn’t sound too bad.

Sixteen hours later a consultant told my parents that I had suffered a fracture to the sixth vertebrae: I’d broken my neck. I had an operation to insert two metal plates to hold the vertebrae together, and which are in for life.

Having lost a five-hour chunk of memory, I am spared the trauma of reliving the incident. My mum had the awful job of telling me that the police had confirmed that my injuries were the result of a hit-and-run. I went numb. Until then I’d assumed that it was my fault, but someone had run me over and left me for dead. I was just an object on the road to them, not a person with a family, dreams and a life ahead.

For three months I lived in a plastic neck collar, unable to do anything for myself. For the first month I was bathed and dressed by my mum — hard for a fiercely independent 27-year- old. She also had to cut up my food and put me to bed. I held on to the privilege of going to the loo by myself, but otherwise felt utterly helpless. With time on my hands I started to think about the things that I had wanted to do and the opportunities that my career as an actress would bring. How would these dreams be affected by a broken neck? Apparently my Olympic-standard, double somersault and triple pike, aided 15ft by a silver Peugeot, was quite a performance. Unfortunately, my dismount was not. I landed on my head and now suffer chronic headaches.

My parents became fluent in the language of “Doobery”, the word I used to substitute for my loss of vocabulary. “Where did I leave my Dooberies?” and my painkillers would appear. After two months my vocabulary returned gradually, but even now my memory is terrible. I often find myself in a room with no idea why I am there.

Six months on I am up and about and people assume that I am fully recovered because I look physically well. On the inside, however, I’m far from it. How do you explain to people how hard it is to get out of bed and to spend your day in pain?

My recovery has probably been held back by anger. Anger at some of the terrible things that happened to me in hospital. In my counselling sessions with a trauma psychologist, which began shortly after the incident, I regularly return to the two nights when I was strapped to a bed and denied prescribed painkillers because of the lack of medical notes. I feel anger at the driver who hit me, and anger at a legal system that hasn’t been on my side when investigating the incident.

The police confirmed recently that they would not be investigating the case further. Ironically, when I got the call I had left work and was walking past the site where I was hit. I was subsequently sick. I now have to endure that sick, numb feeling twice a day, walking to and from work.

According to Dr Elizabeth Capewell, the trauma recovery specialist who treated me, it’s often these battles for justice, with the legal process, and the unhelpful reactions of people in official positions, that can be especially hard for accident victims to come to terms with. “If they dare to complain, or even question, then it is the victim that is seen as the problem, rarely the system,” she says.

When you’ve lived in a bubble of carers, medication and isolation, going back to work is difficult. I struggle being around people. Six months ago I’d thought nothing of doing stand-up comedy in a room full of strangers. Day to day my energy is concentrated on my recovery. I returned to my office job in June, but part-time as I can’t sit for longer than a few hours before my neck starts to hurt and suddenly the pain in my over-compensating lower back kicks in.

My hit-and-run experience has made me view life differently but I can’t associate with the old cliché of not taking life for granted. I see a world where lawlessness and injustice are rife. However, I now appreciate the simple things, putting on my clothes and eating without a bib. And I will always have great regard for the underused language of Doobery.

Traumatic shock: what helps

Information supplied by Dr Elizabeth Capewell, a trauma recovery specialist who runs the Centre for Crisis Management and Education (01635 30644)

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