Occasionally, I have dreams in which fragmented images explode like flashbulbs behind my eyes. And although many memories have been erased by time - or by "science" - some are so deeply imprinted that the crackling of a strip light will transport me back to a time that I would rather forget ...

This isn't what was meant to happen. We were going to be the perfect family. But the baby never stops screaming and I don't know what's wrong with her. I tell myself that the feelings of tiredness and inadequacy are inevitable parts of motherhood, but tiredness evolves into exhaustion and inadequacy into despair. I'm her mother: I should know instinctively how to make her happy. But I'm useless, stupid. I'm so pathetic, it's driving me insane.

The doctor thinks I'm mad. Why else would he tell my husband, Ian, that I need to be in hospital? And not just the local infirmary, but a psychiatric hospital? They say I need drugs and something called ECT. They say it will help; but the pills thicken the haze in my head and I don't know what ECT is. They talk at me about what will happen, but I can't concentrate and it's easier to agree than ask them to go through it again.

A nurse gives me an injection. The girl in the next bed has one, too: she says it's a pre-med to relax us before we "get plugged into the mains". I don't know what she means.

Now we're all in the lounge in our dressing gowns. Mrs Parry is rocking back and forth. It's hypnotic - I'm beginning to sway, too. I feel as if I've had too much to drink. We're led outside. The minibus stinks of sweat and cigarettes. A nurse checks our names on a list - maybe she thinks someone escaped in the few yards from the building. Do zombies run? We're lurching along now, a cacophony of grinding gears burrowing into my brain. I can't stop shaking. An obscene insect is crawling down my spine and bile burns the back of my throat. And then we stop.

We're led into a hall and herded towards metal-framed chairs. We sit in silence, and wait. I don't know what I'm waiting for. "Good morning, ladies. How are we today?" A man in a white coat materialises with a clipboard. "I see a new face! Welcome, Patricia. I'm Charles. I'm going to look after you while you wait. Smile, my dear. It's not as bad as all that." He drones on, but no one seems to hear him.

People disappear through a door. Seven have gone in, but none has come out. I'm shivering, but my hands are clammy. My heart thrums in my ears. I must get out of here! I want Ian. I want my baby.

Charles smiles at me and points to the door. I'm shaking so much I can hardly walk. I'm in a dimly-lit corridor. Someone guides me to a trolley. "Lie down, dear. Relax. I'm going to put a needle in your hand. Little scratch coming up." A strip light splutters above me. I hear murmurs from behind a glass door, followed by a crackle and a muffled thud. Then another. I'm pushed into a tiny room full of shrouded figures and strange machinery. "Hello, Patricia. Going to pop you off to sleep. Relax."

"It's Pat. I'm called Pat."

"Right, Patricia, you'll feel nice and sleepy. Count to 10 for me."

A voice is calling from a long way off. "Patricia, open your eyes, dear." Everything is spinning. I feel sick. I want to sleep but the voice nags me incessantly. Someone shakes my arm. "Patricia! Wake up, dear."

I'm in a room amidst a phalanx of trolleys with semi-conscious people on them. A throbbing pain drills into my skull when I lift my head. My temples hurt, and when I touch them I feel rough patches of skin that burn and sting. "Awake, are we? Have a nice cuppa, dear."

I was in hospital for three months, and given two shock treatments a week. Eventually I was discharged on antidepressants, but these had unpleasant side effects, so I decided to come off them. I gradually began to feel better, but I believe the passing of time and perhaps my own determination had more to do with that than the drugs or ECT.

With hindsight, I am convinced the doctors thought I might hurt Vicki - or myself; perhaps they were right. I was 25 when I was given ECT. In those days, doctors were gods and they told you what was good for you. I wasn't sufficiently aware to question it. It was only later that I felt resentment about losing part of my daughter's first years, and anger at what had been done to me. I feel as though I was abused.

· Do you have an experience to share? Email: experience@theguardian.com