“I’m Not Crazy — Just Telling How It Is”

You ever notice how when you tell the truth, people start giving you that look? The one doctors use when they think your brain’s leaking out your ears. I swear, I could tell them the sky’s blue and they’d still check my pupils with a torch.

It started simple. A bit of stomach pain. Then burps that could strip paint off a wall — sulphur, pure volcano. I told the doc, “Mate, something’s brewing in there. Could be the end of days.” He says constipation. CONSTIPATION. After three days of diarrhoea that could fuel a hydro plant. That’s when I knew something was off — not just in my gut, but in the whole system.

Then came the finger. You know the one. The prostate check. I tried to be brave, but when he went in, I swear I saw stars and heard the national anthem. Blood after that. He said, “Oh, that’s normal.” I said, “Not in my book, mate!”

A week later, I get told it’s prostate and bowel cancer. Just like that. No warning, no soft music, no “take a seat.” Just facts — flat and cold as the table I was sitting on. My red blood cells were low, my energy lower, and still they said, “You’re looking well.” I thought, I must have missed the part where I joined the circus.

Then there was the mental health guy — my “case manager.” I thought he was a mate at first. He’d drop by, have a yarn, nod a lot. I thought, Finally, someone who listens! Then one day, he says, “You’re not mentally ill.” I said, “I could’ve told you that for free.” But guess what? Never saw him again. Maybe I passed the test. Maybe I failed it too well.

And the worst part? The doctors keep talking around you. Like you’re a wall with ears.
“He’s presenting well.”
“He’s coherent.”
“He’s resistant to intervention.”

Resistant? I’m not a car part! I just asked why they can’t decide whether I’m dying or dehydrated.

But here’s the thing: I’m not crazy. I’m just telling it how it is. If that makes people uncomfortable, maybe that’s their problem. Maybe the truth sounds mad when everyone’s busy pretending things make sense.

I still go about my day. Sit in my chair, have a cuppa, think about the puppet I left on that club table that night — no legs, bloodshot eyes, angry as hell. A symbol, maybe, for everything that’s been done to me. Forgotten, poked, prodded, left behind while strangers ask, “Is he all right?” And me, just nodding, saying, “Yeah, she’s fine,” because what else can you say when no one really listens?

But here’s my truth:
I’ve seen the inside of hospitals, the inside of my own body, and the inside of my mind. And I’m still standing. Maybe bent a bit, maybe stitched up funny, but standing all the same.

So no, I’m not crazy. I’m alive. And in this world, that’s the biggest miracle of all.