Trapped

My day was crammed to bursting. At 6am, the kids would jump on the bed. I would make breakfast and packed lunches, then clean their teeth. In rush-hour traffic, I would make to-do lists that were several pages long, then work at breakneck speed so that I could get home for bath time. Instead of supper with my husband, I would tackle my work e-mails. By 10pm, Hollywood had woken up, and I was expected to be on duty. By midnight, I would be asleep over the phone. The next day, it would all start again, as I woke more tired than when I went to bed.

The more I did, the more people seemed to think I was capable of. Lacking the courage to admit that I wasn't coping, I began to feel a failure in every area of my life. At work, too tired to speak in meetings, I would just smile and nod, hoping nobody would notice. Ironically, given the chance to talk uninterrupted, clients sang my praises and recommended me to others.

At home, I was so tired and stressed that it was rubbing off on the children. I have never felt lower than the day my son drew sad, angry faces on the back of a cereal packet and said it was a picture of Mummy.

Inevitably, the guilt, exhaustion and workload caught up with me. My perspective started slipping and I could not think straight. It came to a head when I won a new million-pound contract. My team opened champagne to celebrate, but all I could think about was the work involved and how the hell I was going to manage it. That night, my mind began to switch out the lights. By the next morning, there was nothing left.

My husband made me go to my doctor, who diagnosed stress and exhaustion, and prescribed drugs and rest. Given permission to stop, my body gave up. For a month, I slept 14 hours a day - more than my two-year-old. I got the flu, bronchitis, sinusitis, stomach pains and sore throats. I took antibiotics and vitamins, and tried homeopathy. At the end of the month, I could potter about the garden and kick a football with my son without being overcome with fatigue. But while my body had stopped shaking, my mind had only just begun.

It started with a feeling of sick anxiety every time my boss rang up to see if I was feeling better. I tried to make light of what I had been through, not wanting to seem weak, unable to admit that my job had made me ill and that I was terrified of returning to it. When I put down the phone, my head would be spinning, my heart pounding; sometimes I felt so giddy I couldn't walk. I couldn't decide what to do, and before long, I was having trouble making any decisions at all.

My first serious panic attack came when I was out shopping with the children. We were buying winter coats. I couldn't decide on the colour. The coats weren't warm enough. If I gave up my job, I couldn't afford them at all and the children would suffer. I began to shake violently, blinded by panic. While my kids made merry mayhem in John Lewis, I was sick in the fire escape.

Desperate to hide the state I was in, I took the children to a cafe and bought them chocolate cake, a treat that held their attention just long enough for me to stop shaking. Their sticky faces beamed at me, apparently unaware that anything was wrong. I was relieved that they hadn't noticed, but was also full of remorse, nervous that, next time, I might not be able to protect them.

So began the vicious circle of anxiety, where fear of what might happen brought on panic. I became afraid to go out, and struggled to walk to the newsagent at the end of the street. Once, faced with the choice between left and right, I was so crippled by indecision that I became trapped in the middle of a busy road. Cars skimmed past, the drivers hooting. Paralysed by fear, I could barely see. A double-decker bus just a few feet from me was no more than a red blur against a background of intense, frightening noise. A kind stranger rescued me from the road. I know it was a woman because I remember her voice, but I have no memory of her face, just of her hand taking mine and leading me away from the noise.

The next day, I asked my doctor if I was going mad. He told me that there was nothing unique about my illness, that many women struggling with a career that demands long hours, regardless of having a family, end up "burnt out", and that my anxiety was rooted in my situation, not a symptom of a deeper mental malaise. He also warned me that the deep, disabling sadness I felt after each panic attack was likely to become depression - and he was right. It was deeper than the ocean and darker than night. Therapy and medication saved my life, and when I surfaced six months later, the world looked different.

I put my health and my family ahead of my career and stopped struggling to return to work. I was honest with my boss, who was supportive and practical. We agreed a leave of absence to rebuild my home life and planned a longer-term return to a smaller, part-time job. The work was still creative; at home, we would be stretched financially, but we could still pay the bills. Most important, my children would have what they needed most: a mother who could stay awake and who was there for them.

Once I stopped trying to achieve the impossible, I stopped feeling like a failure. I concentrated on my children and learnt from their carefree joy to live more in the moment and to enjoy it.

Finally, I had time to rebuild my relationship with my husband, who had been pushed to the limits by my breakdown. I realised how lucky I was that he had found the strength not to leave me. Now I have time to love what I have, rather than desperately trying to "have it all". I didn't settle for less; I settled for happiness.

WHERE TO GET HELP

Stress, depression or anxiety account for an estimated 12.8m reported lost working days per year in Britain. The website of the Royal Society of Psychiatrists (www.rcpsych.ac.uk) has helpful online leaflets on anxiety, stress, depression and cognitive behavioural therapy, which works to change long-held beliefs and behaviour, and is especially effective for treating panic attacks, depression and self-esteem issues.