I'm Ceylan.
This is my brain.
Not a medical page. Not a diagnosis summary.
Just a human being, explaining herself to the people who matter.
Zandkastelen — Rotterdam, 2024
More than a diagnosis
I finished medical school. I worked in orthopedics — 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, and I lost almost everything. My home, my relationship, my cats, my sense of who I was. It was like watching a movie of my own life — except I couldn't pause it and I couldn't leave.
I rebuilt. Not back to what I was — into something new. I learned design, AutoCAD, goldsmithing. I make jewelry with my hands. I write. I draw. I build things. I made a whole book by hand about what happened to me, because I needed the world to know that people like me exist and we're not what you think.
What bipolar type one actually is
It's not mood swings. Stop saying that. It's not "being happy then sad." It's a neurological condition — my brain chemistry shifts between extreme states that can last weeks or months. I didn't choose this. Nobody does.
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. It feels electric from the inside — and it's terrifying from the outside. That's the trap.
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 during mania, my brain disconnects from reality. I might hear things, believe things that aren't true, see patterns where there are none. This is the part most people misunderstand. It doesn't make me dangerous. It makes me vulnerable. It's the scariest thing I've ever experienced — and I've been through a lot.
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.
What helps — and what doesn't
You're reading this because you're someone in my life. Maybe you're new. Maybe you've been here a while and never knew what to say. That's okay. Here's what actually helps — and what doesn'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 weaponize 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.
A handmade zine about bipolar disorder, homelessness, finding a lighthouse in the dark, and rebuilding from nothing. Typewritten, drawn, collaged, and stitched together by hand. Every page is personal. Every page is real.
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.
cey.dursun@hotmail.com
Or find me in Rotterdam. I'm around.