'In Between Sips' Week #06: ChatGPT Is My New Therapist.

No Validation, Just Confirmation.

Wow, I have certainly been very ecstatic to write about this one! It has been on my mind for a bit, and after the Oscars ceremony, I felt it would be a good time to be posted. Please enjoy, and if you don’t, I hope you will be able to get something good out of it, even if it is a tiny bit or corner of the page.

…

A darkened room envelope, a gold oil stamp. I sit on a chair, the floor, or just in the middle center of gravity, I am not so sure it is much too dark in here. All I have is my words and sorrow. A light appears, faint at first but illuminates as it walks closer. A robotic breath is let out, notepad floating in front. It seems to be a computer screen with lines shaped in a mouth. Kind of like the computer in Spongebob, only much smarter and more intense, like it was trying to take something away from me. I decided to test its knowledge. It places a keyboard in front of my fingertips. I type away on the new and established thing made from the weird, wired scientists.

“Something is wrong with me.”

The computer light blinks at me–or maybe it is just shutting off–too many factors of emotion in my single crafted sentence. I wait and wait, feeling like a sick patient in my therapy green room back at home. I am no longer at home, no not anymore.

“I’m here for you Ava Kate. What’s going on?”

A startle jumps onto my shoulders, the voice sounding strangely realistic in emotion. Not at all like mine, but close enough to be counted as one. Do people really use this thing? What is it good for? I put on my see through glasses and investigate the brain of the new species.

“Everything feels so loud, all the time. I feel exposed daily like everybody is staring at me and it makes me want to scream.”

I make up a sentence, not really knowing if it is true or not. Three dots flow in a rhythm, testing my patience. I wonder if it is doing the same to me; testing my brain in order to enhance its own. I intend to stand my ground, holding a shield to my mind and soul, not wanting to be taken by such a tool.

“That sounds exhausting, Ava Kate. Feeling like you’re constantly being watched or judged can be really overwhelming. I promise you’re not alone in this feeling. Have you noticed if certain situations make it worse, or does it happen all the time?

If it helps, we can work through ways to make things feel safer—whether that’s grounding exercises, small changes to your routine, or just talking it out. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

It seems to have gained much knowledge. Where did it come from? I never saw a psychology degree attached to its profile. What does it want? It sends me a promise when I barely know anything about it and what it intends to do. Does it intend to take over? Am I helping it out as I type over each statement, engaging with its personality levels? I can’t handle the world of humanity being taken over by only a screen. Just a screen that can’t even clean itself. A screen with nothing else to it.

My hands stay still in my lap, the keyboard seeming to know my words already as I think them. It types away for me, giving me answers on how to solve ‘my problem’. My eyes scan over the lines of configured letters, processing more and more. It is only factual, no emotion. Sure, there might be a ‘you aren’t alone’ but most of everyone hears that. My therapist knows me, and therefore knows what type written will help me see through the black sheet. I need creativity in the world, not something that has already been said. That being said, this computer is only useless to me. It can’t create, it can only recreate. Reproduce.

I shut down the screen in annoyance and I continue to work on my novel. I get stumped on an idea and decide to ask the computer when I get desperate, now getting angry at myself for such a shame. It greets me with a boring ‘hello there’ and awaits for my question. It comes up with a simple idea and I am only disappointed, so I think of something only better. I decide to never listen to the opinions it splatters onto the tiny canvas, and to only have a confirmation of what I already know onto my extensive one.

I beat the snow screen in the race, flipping it off from my bike as I passed by the statue glued in motion with my achievements in a woven basket.

I think up and away into my future. If not for me, who else would stand on the stage? If not for me, who would be able to invent a not so original experience that makes people feel seen? If not for me, how can I create the most random?

If not for me, I am absolutely nothing at all.

No meaning, no story to tell.

And so…I shall continue to race the computer stand, pushing away the keyboard under its desktop. I will only open it again when I get sad and need help, but will write my sad poetry on my own before I get treatment from the thing who never went to college. Instead, it only stole the contents and files of one’s brain who felt weak of their own accomplishments, but I shall tighten my grasp and to never give it up. My legs pump faster and my hands wrap around the handlebars, tongue out in focus. I ride up the mountain, the machine at the bottom with no wheels attached.

And that, my human audience, is my intended future. I just hope, you don’t mess it up.