I had gone from a happy 12.5st man with a girlfriend, a social life, good friends and a job he liked...to a stick-thin depressed loner with no life and a London job that didn't pay enough in the course of 12 months.

So, on my sick leave from work I went back to Norwich one weekend to stay in the house I owned which had just been left by its tenant. I used to love living there in 2006-7...but it brought back all of the memories and the tears shed, the happy times with my ex-girlfriend and best friend. The ghosts of the past were still there, but the walls were empty and it was a shell. It sounds strange but I guess me and the house belonged together. We were both empty. We were both crying out inside for some care and attention.

But I was lucky, this was my house, my space, my place to call my own. I was alone and in charge of what I was going to be eating and drinking that March weekend. Lucky for me the sun was out, it was a gorgeous day and I wasn't cold. On the Friday I went out with one of my a small group of friends I had left behind before leaving for London and they were shocked. They said I looked ill, I looked sick, that 'I needed a kebab'. After a few hours I wasn’t the same old Liam they knew and loved going out with. I was tired, I wasn’t in the mood to party or drink beer. Girls weren’t looking at me anymore, my soul felt destroyed.

Dinner at Pizza Hut with them was a no no. I had made do on a white roll with a bit of chicken and lettuce and couldn't justify having any, even though my stomach was aching for a slice, so I took some pizza home and hoarded it in the fridge, nestled amongst a Tesco low calorie meal and skimmed milk. A waste, I knew I would never eat it, I would look at it, I would let it torture me, and I would bin it.

The next morning I woke up, at 6.30 on the dot as usual after only 4 hours sleep. I wasn’t sleeping well, I hadn’t been for weeks. I had finished the Tamazapan tablets, and no more sleeping pills were left. So, I had a cracker, a cup of tea and a cigarette and sat and watch the sun rise. After buying the weekend papers and doing the crosswords and sudokus, I had a hot bath and had my breakfast – a small bowl of apricot wheats with skimmed milk at 10am. But my friends’ words from the night before were still hanging in the air.

Before I went through my routine of getting ready for the day (a naked weigh-in after breakfast and a weigh-in with clothes on, then with shoes and coat on) I decided to take some pictures of myself and my body, just to see what they saw.

Suddenly I hated myself and what I had become. Who was this skeleton looking back at me? Who was this man with sunken eyes? I looked dead. My veins stuck out of my arms. My ribs protruded. My legs were like sticks. So I weighed myself. The digital scaled threw back the display. 8st 7.5.

I knew that was low, so I checked on the internet to work out my Body Mass Index. It was 15.4. According to wikipedia a BMI reading nearing 15 is bordering on starvation.

Starvation is a severe reduction in vitamin, nutrient, and energy intake, and is the most extreme form of malnutrition. In humans, prolonged starvation (in excess of 1-2 months) causes permanent organ damage and, eventually death.

Somewhat shocked, I got dressed, my jeans already too big and my belt too large to fit properly and put it to the back of my mind. Half of me was worried, but the other anorexic and comfortable half of me knew I could have whatever I wanted to eat that day, and it felt good. I walked miles to meet my friend to watch the football – and ate a packet of sour cream cheese crisps, a banana and an apple, plus a bottle of coke zero. I knew I had a ‘be good to yourself chicken tikka meal’ at home, so the 330 calories would do to line my stomach before I went out again that evening. However, I still didn’t feel full even after eating every last scrap. With the pictures from the morning and the starvation label playing through my head I had some 5 caramel crackers and a second banana for dinner – Another 190 calories. But I was racked with guilt and worry the moment I did. I dreaded the post-dinner weigh-in after my shower.

I got ready to go out, but on my way into the city the depression hit me, and I decided en-route I could'nt face it. I’d go to the cinema instead and watch a film by myself.

The wake-up shock I needed

I walked out of the cinema after the film finished and decided to go home. The sound of people enjoying themselves at the Irish bar across the road was too much to bear – I had spent yet another Saturday evening by myself, silently sipping Jack Daniels and diet coke to relieve the numbness of the weekend at the back of the cinema.

But the tops of my legs were burning. A combination of the miles I had walked and the lack of food I had eaten that day were taking their toll, but I soldiered on back home. I lit a cigarette and pressed on, until I heard what sounded like a cat, wailing in pain.

I crossed the road to see where the noise was coming from, and then I saw it laying there, howling, its tiny ribcage potruding further and further out with each high-pitched cry. It’s grey coat was a mat of knots and it’s left eye was oozing, but it was the pain behind those eyes that stirred me to try and help.

I walked towards it slowly, to try and reassure it I was there to help, but it backed off. I just didn’t know what I could do. For the next 10 minutes I felt powerless. The more I called to it, rubbing my fingers together, beckoning it to come closer so I could take it home and give it some milk or ham it refused to come, it just continued to cry out, frustrating me more and more.

 And suddenly I broke down and cried. I cried because I saw myself in that poor cat. I was doing exactly what everyone I know and love was trying to do for me. I too felt alone and I refusing food and help and love, and I too, like the cat, was one step closer to death’s door. But although it was just an animal that cat could offer so much joy and love to someone, that cat had been starved by someone else. I however was making the physical choice to starve myself.

 It was clear that I could do one of two things that night. Choose to live or carry on and die. I chose life.

I knew I’d gone too far. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want my family to feel like I did at that moment anymore. I had selfishly put them through months of feeling the hurt I was feeling looking at that cat, but it must have been so much worse as they saw me deteriorate day after day, month after month. I had so much to live for, so much to offer but I couldn’t see it. I’d let the disease in, take control of my mind and my stomach and mess with it severely.

 So I stood up, wiped the tears from my eyes and waved goodbye to the dying animal. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but I knew it was just the start – the journey I was on now was going to be much tougher. It would involve some drastic changes, both physical and mental.

On the physical side I knew I had to eat, and eat more. But because my stomach had shrunk so much I knew I would not be able to handle ‘normal portions’ without wanting to be sick.  It would mean three square meals a day, eating more calories and eating even if I didn't want to.

On the mental side it would mean conquering the fear. Conquering the fear of getting fat, seeing the scales go the opposite way, up instead of down. It would mean eating the foods I had deprived myself of for so long, the chips, crisps, chocolate, cheese, white bread. It would mean seeing my body and face change and accepting it and restoring my body back to health.

When I woke up the next day I got straight to work, but because I had starved myself for so long the feeling of hunger was second nature to me. I knew I could last for hours on a cracker or a piece of fruit, so I knew that it was going to be tough. But to my horror I found out that getting back to a healthy BMI and losing my underweight and near-starvation BMI carried with it a whole host of risks.