Standing in front of my bedroom mirror I gazed at my once curvy size 12 figure, now shrunken and emaciated, and wiped away the tears rolling down my cheeks.

I was 17 and weighed 5 1/2st, but I wasn't crying at the sight of my ribs showing through my translucent skin, or because my dull hair was falling out in clumps.

No, I was desperately unhappy because all I could see when I looked at myself was a fat, unhappy misfit.

My insecurities about my body started when I began secondary school near my home in Chigwell, Essex.

I was targeted by bullies who called me ‘fatty' and said no one would want to be my friend.

Although I tried hard to ignore them, their words cut me to the core.

Then I noticed that celebrities, who all seemed to be slim, always looked happy, and the two things became linked in my mind.

Even when the bullies began picking on someone else and I made some friends, that feeling of being a misfit never left me.

My friends were great, but I never felt as pretty or as popular as them.

Something inside me kept gnawing away, telling me I'd never be good enough.

Our school prom was due to take place in June 2006, and I decided this would be the night I'd finally become the confident, popular girl I yearned to be.

In my mind that meant I needed to be slimmer, so I set myself a target.

I'd drop a dress size so I was a size 10 by the time of the prom six months later.

I even bought a size 10 dress for inspiration.

I began swimming and doing weights every day and threw my lunchtime sandwiches in the bin, convincing myself that it would all be worth it.

About three months into my diet, my mum started to notice I was losing weight.

She asked if I was OK, but I just told her to stop fussing over me.

My dress looked beautiful hanging in my wardrobe, and it fitted me perfectly.

But when I tried it on, I didn't feel beautiful.

I felt like the same old worthless me.

In the end, the prom night I'd looked forward to for so long was a total disappointment.

All my friends looked fantastic and they said I looked lovely too, but I didn't believe them.

I was convinced they were just saying it so I wouldn't feel awkward.

After the prom, I decided I had to carry on dieting.

To me this was the key to being happy and popular.

I became obsessed – always working out the calorie content of everything I ate and drank.

For breakfast I'd have a small cereal bar, then I'd starve myself until the family meal at night, which I would push around my plate before taking just a few small mouthfuls.

So little food left me feeling light-headed but I pushed myself on, desperate to lose a few more pounds.

My relationship with my mum suffered.

She noticed the weight was falling off me and she'd ask if there was anything she could do to help.

Some days I was really defensive and told her to back off, others I opened up a little and just said I was feeling down, but that I'd be OK.

She was desperate to help me and made me sandwiches every day for lunch, but the sight of them terrified me and I couldn't bring myself to eat them.

By the time I started sixth form college in September 2006, I was depressed and incredibly lonely.

I'd stopped socialising because I didn't want people to start asking about how little I was eating.

I was weak, but I had no idea how much I weighed because I never got on the scales.

I couldn't bring myself to in case I was disappointed.

Instead I gauged my weight loss by how baggy my clothes were.

But they never felt baggy enough.

I could have bought new clothes, but couldn't face going into a changing room and seeing my ‘fat' figure in the mirror, knowing all the clothes would look horrible on me.

Although I couldn't see it myself, my curves had disappeared.

I was pale and so skinny I was permanently freezing cold.

My mum begged me to see a doctor but I refused.

Even my closest friends had told me they were worried, but I couldn't admit I was anorexic.

In February 2007, my periods stopped and my mum, who was distraught, finally forced me to see the doctor.

I was diagnosed with anorexia, and I was shocked to discover I weighed just 5 1/2st.

I'd read about anorexia and seen girls who were suffering from it, but I was in denial that I was one of them.

The doctor told me the stark truth – people die from anorexia and I would probably be sectioned if I didn't go to hospital.

That was the wake-up call that I needed.

I spent the next seven months in an eating-disorder clinic on a weight-gain programme, supported by a team of nurses and therapists.

There were times when I struggled to accept I was being treated for an eating disorder. I couldn't believe that I had done this to myself.

Eight months on, I'm now a size 10 again and slowly recovering. Every day is a milestone.

I sometimes feel guilty if I eat cake or ice cream, but therapy has taught me how to work through it.

I have a part-time job as a receptionist in a hospital and a loving boyfriend – and both have boosted my confidence.

I feel stronger because of what I've been through.

I'm 18 now and I know that if I can beat anorexia, I can do anything I want in life.

photography: syriol jones hair & make-up: caroline piasecki at time For support on dealing with eating disorders, visit b-eat.co.uk or call 0845 634 1414