It was hour 20. Stacks of paper with hastily scrawled images and text were scattered on every side of me. I'd been up for over 30 hours and my body was running on caffeine and very little else. My hand was aching and simply wanted to remove itself from the end of my arm, take a nice bath, and lie down. The rest of my body was attempting to start a civil war with the part of my brain that agreed to take part in a 24 hour comic challenge. The collateral damage seemed to be my spine, shoulders and neck. I should explain. The 24 hour comic challenge was invented by comic book scholar and practitioner Scott McCloud in 1990. Any willing participants are required to produce 24 pages of a comic in 24 consecutive hours. No prior preparation is allowed bar a gathering of materials and sustenance. The exercise was a reaction to the length of time he and his peers spent agonizing over single panels. Hours, days, and even weeks fell prey to extended bouts of procrastination and this, McCloud surmised, would encourage a different way of working. It proved to be a wonderfully inspiring, creative task for people who took part and there are now worldwide events based around the idea.

Sitting in London's ICA (Institute of Contemporary Arts) during 2007's COMICA festival, I found myself now attempting to add my own weary, masochistic efforts to the thousands of existing 24 hour comics. It isn't exactly what you'd call the ideal way to spend a weekend. Let's go a little further and say that it would probably sit fairly far down the list. Somewhere below extensive keyhole surgery and discussing religion at a dinner party for 24 hour consecutive hours.

Very early on in the 24 hours of mental and physical insanity, I'd decided to draw an auto-biographical comic about my experiences with Crohn's Disease. After 15 years of living with the damn thing, it struck me that I might just have enough material to fill 24 pages. It was a big part of my life, but also a part of my life that I felt embarrassed about and thus, it seemed that this might be a nice opportunity to vent my frustrations and 'come clean' about the complaint. Within a few hours of sketching out rough pages and looking around nervously at my fellow comic artists - furiously etching into their own notebooks - it became obvious to me that I had been writing this comic in my head for a long time. Reaching 24 pages wasn't going to be tough, knowing when to stop would be. My hand was incapable of drawing fast enough. I would interrupt the inking of one page to make sure I could scribble my thoughts down for an idea to come eight pages later.

One thing I wasn't prepared for was how the intense, ticking, ever impending time-bomb of a deadline would provoke me to be so honest and open about the disease. Looking at the comic now, I immediately cringe and want to curl up into a tiny ball - roll away somewhere no-one will ever find me. Did I really draw that? Did I really write that? What was I thinking?! Clearly, my sleep-deprived brain had initiated a delayed, sadistic form of payback. Most of my friends have read the comic now and I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand I'm relieved that I don't have to explain myself should I need to rush off unexpectedly to the nearest restroom. On the other hand, I'm aware that everyone knows exactly why I'm doing so. Despite my own admittedly self-indulgent issues with the story, it would seem that the comic has touched an inflamed nerve with fellow Crohns sufferers. This is something I had not been expecting. When I can bring myself to examine the results of that weekend, I find my eyes instantly drawn to the myriad mistakes and badly drawn panels, yet the central premise and the undiluted recounting of my experiences have managed to somehow remain intact.

It has become the comic I'm proudest of in my short time working within the medium. For the very simple reason that it has genuinely touched and affected people with the disease, or people who have friends/family with the disease, or just people who can relate to the idea of being diagnosed with something so debilitating at such a young age. The response has been overwhelming and fellow sufferers have regularly emailed me to tell me that they've been printing the comic out and giving it to friends, family, and loved ones - so that they understand what they are going through. No artist can really ask for more than that. There's something unique, I think, about the comic book medium that has provoked this reaction from people. The combination of words and pictures speak more directly and succinctly to the way our thoughts organise themselves than either can manage alone. I think in comics. Sadly, I'm regularly reminded of this fact whenever trying to hold a decent conversation. I'm far happier communicating to people from the comfort of my drawing board. More can always be said with less.

Perhaps the most surprising and welcoming result of having undertaken this comic has been how I have redefined my relationship with the disease. It dawned on me in recent years that having this condition has made me, for better or worse, who I am today. It has always informed a large part of my life and for a long time I've tried to deny that. Drawing this comic has been empowering. Not bad for a 'funny book'. Back to hour 20 and those scattered pages. My spine screaming for a break. My stomach screaming for the toilet. My brain screaming at itself for ever wanting to do this. And yet all I was wondering was how to fit another 200 pages of content into the final four panels.

Tom Humberstone has been writing and drawing comics under the alias of VentedSpleen since 2004. He is the creator of Art School Scum and the Eagle Award nominated How to Date a Girl in 10 Days. Check out his work at www.ventedspleen.com