I only ever met her twice before she became my stalker. On our first encounter, she recognised me as being on the same dating website as her, and so introduced herself – and there was nothing, no thousand–yard stare, no deranged cackling, to tip me off that she was in any way disturbed. The second time we met, I slept with her. And then, having known me for all of a few hours, she told me that she loved me. I laughed it off then.

From the moment Glenn Close boiled her first bunny, popular culture has loved a female stalker. As with all cinematic archetypes, they became an object of humour. They became funny, adorable misguided cranks like Renee Zellweger's Nurse Betty, deluded but charmingly harmless. Women stalking men got funny. I have to say that I haven't found much of the last three years especially chucklesome, as my stalker ended up comprehensively boiling my inner bunny.

Although it was funny in the first few months when she chased me down the street on foot as I cycled home from work, the joke wore very thin, very fast. It stopped being funny when she threatened to counter-allege that I had drugged and sexually assaulted her if I went to the police. It also wasn't especially amusing when she did exactly that. And it was downright vexing when I found that, while she immediately got free legal advice and counselling as a result of the nature of her fabrications, I was left to my own devices for five long months with the allegations hanging over my head. By the time I was cleared, I was a depressed borderline-alcoholic insomniac terrified of his own doorbell. Not very funny.

I even had (male) police officers laugh at her loopy voicemails. I don't blame them though – most people, in my experience, cannot help but find the idea of a man living in fear of an obsessed woman faintly risible. I had one girlfriend (now an ex) tell me that I had to "man up" as if I could somehow puff my chest out and produce the magic formula to mend a profoundly disturbed woman.

The reality of being a stalked man is a mixture of grinding tedium, of disturbed sleep, violent nightmares and isolation. One's first instincts are to attempt dialogue with your stalker – eventually you come to realise that you may as well be trying to bring reason to a small child.

And above all, it becomes apparent that it's down to you to create your own case. So your life becomes one of logging missed calls, taping voicemails, transcribing texts and having a cameraphone at hand every time you answer the door. Visits to the police station are frequent and time-consuming. Being stalked is a massive pain in the arse.

One day in the future I may be able to laugh about it all, but the current reality is that my stalker forced me out of the home I had lived in for five years, left me with deep trust and anger issues, and nursing post-traumatic stress disorder, which will only subside as I put time and distance between me and her. And I have to pin my hopes on the notion that, when I agreed to her being merely cautioned for harassment on the basis that she agreed never to try to contact me again, she was telling the truth. It feels like a very big ask.

This was in October 2011, and I have not heard from nor seen her since. I recently made a documentary for More4 and was told that it was the first of its kind because everyone else who has tried found the process too upsetting. People have asked if I'm worried that it will provoke her into fresh activity, and that question, I must admit, does make me laugh. Because there is nothing left that she can do to me.

Stalked is on More 4 on Monday at 10pm.