I'm Little Miss Disorder.
If you're here, I probably care about you. Or you're just very nosy. Both are fine.
A cat with endless lives
I finished medical school. I worked in orthopaedics — bones, joints, the mechanics of the human body. I held scalpels and made decisions that mattered. I was good at it.
Then my brain went sideways. My home, my relationship, my cats, my sense of who I was — gone. Fast. Like, embarrassingly fast.
I rebuilt. Not back to what I was — into something new. I learned design, goldsmithing. I make jewellery with my hands. I write. I draw. I build things. And somewhere in the city, there are zines with my story in them — left behind for strangers to find.
What bipolar type one actually is
It's not mood swings. Stop saying that. It's a neurological condition — my brain chemistry shifts between extreme states that can last weeks or months.
I have type one. That means the highs can go very high — into mania, and sometimes into psychosis. Here's what that actually means:
Mania
Not "being energetic." It's sleeping two hours and feeling invincible. Ideas flooding in faster than I can catch them. Spending money I don't have. Taking risks that make no sense later. And then — somewhere underneath all of it — the moment you realise you can't stop. The car has no brakes and you know it.
Depression
The other side. Not sadness — the absence of everything. I can't get up. I can't think. The world goes grey and heavy. Basic things become impossible. Brushing my teeth feels like climbing a mountain. It's not laziness. It's the illness pulling me under.
Psychosis
Sometimes my brain disconnects from reality. I might hear things, believe things that aren't true, see patterns where there are none. I once genuinely believed I was God's favourite child. I didn't question it for a second. It doesn't make me dangerous. I just operate on a different frequency.
Between episodes, I'm stable. I'm just me. The illness is episodic — it comes and goes. Most of the time, you wouldn't know. That's also part of the problem: people see me doing well and assume I'm "cured." I'm not. I'm managing.
If you're in my life, this is for you
You're reading this because you matter to me. Maybe you're new. Maybe you've been here a while and never knew what to say. Either way — here's what I actually need. And what I don't, even when it comes from a good place.
What helps
- Treat me like a person, not a patient
- Ask how I'm doing — and actually listen to the answer
- Learn the difference between a bad day and an episode
- Be patient when I cancel — it's not about you
- Trust that I know my own condition better than Google does
- Stay calm when things get intense
- Just be there. Presence matters more than solutions
What doesn't
- Don't say "everyone gets moody sometimes"
- Don't tell me to "just think positive"
- Don't treat me like I'm made of glass
- Don't weaponise my diagnosis in an argument
- Don't Google my medication and give me advice
- Don't assume one episode means I'm always like this
- Don't disappear when it gets hard
Things I make with my hands
Making things keeps me here. Whether it's a ring, a drawing, a handmade book — the act of creating something from nothing is how I survive. It's not a hobby. It's how I stay alive and make sense of the chaos.
Say hello
If you've read this far — thank you. Most people don't get past the word "bipolar." The fact that you're still here says something.
If you want to reach out — about my work, collaboration, or just to talk — I'd like that.
Or find me in Rotterdam. I'm around.
hello@littlemissdisorder.com