I'm hooked on Valium but I'm not an addict

A few days ago, a friend sent me one of those time-killing email questionnaires which is meant to profile your personality by asking what your favourite things are. For favourite sounds, other people had written things like cascading waterfalls, trees rustling in the breeze, even the shipping forecast. I thought for a moment and typed "the gentle rattle of an emergency Valium in the brown bottle at the bottom of my handbag".

Some people - and this was true of a friend who read my confession - might think of me as an addict, but to me Valium is merely a part of my life. I rely on the drug, and have done for 10 years, to get me through sudden, stomachwrenching, head-swimming hours of blind and useless panic attacks that I'm prone to.

That's why, despite the pills - or more probably because of them - I'm in something of a panic now. The Government's chief medical officer, Sir Liam Donaldson, is calling for the use of tranquillisers to be even further limited because, it seems, he believes there are too many "addicts" like me out there, people who rely on the drug to get them through a difficult day.

I'm a user, yes - I'm prescribed almost three tablets a week. An addict, no. Sure, I need Valium when things get bad, but I don't need it, like an alcoholic needs a drink, or as much as you "needed" that strong cup of coffee this morning. In my mind, I'm no more of an addict than you are. I'd never recommend Valium as a cure-all - it's clearly a very powerful pharmaceutical that should be dispensed and used with the utmost caution - and I most certainly don't abuse it.

I have had panic attacks for 30 of my 42 years. Do you know the hot, dizzy moment when you realise you've made a stupid mistake at work but it's too late to do anything about it? Well, imagine that feeling sweeping over you at random, suddenly, when you least expect it, for no reason. It's a feeling of terror, the thought of impending doom, yet you simply don't know what the awful thing is that's going to happen.

Much of my life - I'm a happily married working mum with two children and live in Stoke Newington - is pretty good. My inner world, however, is prone to bouts of pronounced and unshakeable, but deeply irrational, terror.

It began one day about 15 years ago when a delayed flight meant I was stuck at the airport in Paris. I'm not the best of fliers, but I had nothing concrete to be terrified about. The ladies' lavatories were being cleaned and there was nowhere to hide, so I went into a broom cupboard and vomited in the sink.

I begged my travelling companion to get me something, anything, that would make me not feel like this. About 20 minutes later she came back with a little blue pill. It was 10mg of Valium. I took it and about half an hour later the terror and sickness ebbed, and I felt fine. Not better than fine. Just fine. Normal. This was it. This was the drug for me.

It was all I could do not to rush to my GP as soon as I got home and demand a bucket-load, but I knew tranquillisers were addictive and I didn't want to sink into that mentality of hoarding them "just in case". However, after a particularly bad run of attacks about 12 years ago, my GP and I came to an agreement for her to supply me with 30 five milligram tablets every three months. When I get my new prescription, it's a bit like pay day. I feel more secure, things are going to be all right. I know that if I ever succumb to a panic attack there is a fast solution. My life is too busy and too short to cry in broom cupboards in airports any more.

You could argue that the fact that Sir Liam Donaldson's warning sent me into a mild panic is indicative of some sort of addictive problem. It does worry me that the next time I visit my GP, she might say: "Michele, I think you are an addict, and we need to cut down your use to five pills a month, and after that, you need to stop." I have gone for weeks, months even, without a single tablet to no ill effect. Yes, I could probably do without it, but I wouldn't particularly like to try, because the pills work for my attacks in a way that nothing else ever has. And I've tried the lot, natural and pharmaceutical.

First there was the now-banned kava kava, which made me sleepy, in a panic-stricken sort of way. I found Bach flower remedies to be a sick, watery joke, their one redeeming feature being that they taste mildly of alcohol. I have tried cognitive behavioural therapy, a "talking" treatment that looks great on paper and has certainly helped thousands overcome panic problems, but not me.

I tried anti-depressants that are specifically marketed for anxiety problems, but they did not stop the attacks. Beta blockers, often prescribed for panic attacks, but which lowered my already low blood pressure, made me pass out. I tried marijuana and had the mother of all panic attacks. I don't really like booze, except vodka, which also has a calming effect, but doesn't fit so neatly in my handbag.

Valium belongs to a group of tranquillisers called benzodiazepines, which were prescribed recklessly and in great numbers during the latter half of the 20th century, and were notoriously dubbed "mother's little helper". When it was established how addictive they were, when people trying to come off them likened withdrawal to coming off heroin, only more protracted, very strict prescribing guidelines were put in place. It was said that benzodiazepines should not be used for more than two to four weeks, and only for patients with disabling anxiety. But what happens when the four weeks are up? Does the anxiety just go away? It just doesn't work like that in real life.

Some would say that my dependence on even small amounts of Valium makes me an addict. But one of the definitions of addiction that I don't fulfil is a desire or need to take more of the substance in order to achieve the same effect as lesser amounts of it used to do.

The second I start to need more to get the same effect is the second I know I have to stop taking them. Until then, and until Sir Liam brings down his sledgehammer, I will keep taking the tablets and that little clink at the bottom of my handbag will forever feel like a warm, strong arm wrapped around my shaking shoulder.