After Elon Musk’s most recent unsavoury exchange with one of his ex-employees, I return to the question I have been agonising over for literally years, the prospective ending of my relationship with social media.
I could live without Twitter which makes me feel anxious and bitter in equal measure in mere seconds, and Facebook is nothing more these days than a reminder of the power that muscle memory has over us. Instagram is a different story though because I don’t know how I’ll cope with not seeing photos of other people’s dinners.
If I wasn’t a therapist I’d probably be a cook or a baker. I choose these from my myriad interests solely because they are the things I’m actually any good at and, judging from advances in AI technology I might be well advised to keep my skills up to speed until a chatbot can knock up a decent loaf.
Lost in a Twitter thread this week while trying to convince myself I don’t need the endless stream of thoughts from people who think like me there is a post from a guy who has got an AI chatbot to write a book for him.
I create an account on ChatGPT and hit my first problem, thinking of a complex enough request that will really test its abilities.
“Write a blog of approximately 500 words on the subject of AI uses in therapy.”
Within a minute it has produced a coherent and accurate, if somewhat soulless, piece on the pros and cons of turning to technology instead of paying for a therapist.
“Write a short story about a woman who dumps her therapist for an AI therapist.”
In 30 seconds it churned out a tale about a woman who felt stuck in her work with a real therapist and turned to an app which she found not only more helpful but more available and cheaper.
It may only be a made-up story but it makes a fair point especially when you consider the number of people on lists waiting for help with their mental health.
I feel my self-esteem dipping.
My daughter, who only days ago was disparaging about ChatGPT when it was unable to help her craft an assignment in the way she had hoped, comes into the kitchen.
“That ChatGPT is fantastic for finding academic references. I just tell it what I want and it gives me a great long list.”
My son, overhearing the conversation says, “I got it to write a really complex Excel formula for me this morning. It would have taken me half an hour.”
“What’s going to happen to our brains?” I ask, “You know, when we’ve stopped having to use them all together?”
I try writing into ChatGPT a genuine question from a client.
It seems to recognise that despite all the language around the issue and no specific use of the phrase it is essentially about burnout.
The strategies and actions it suggests in its response are essentially exactly the same ones that I will write when I craft my reply but what they lack is a sort of “me-ness” that I hope still has value.
I shelve plans to sideline technology and social media on the basis of the maxim “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
In the kitchen, my son has turned out a couple of impressive poached eggs reminding me of the time a couple of months ago when he complained about not being able to do so.
I made him a little video that day, showing him the process to make sure he’d always be able to poach an egg and making use of one of the increasingly few ways in which I feel I am able to enrich his life.
“Those look good, did you use my video to help?”
“Oh, no I forgot about that. I just asked ChatGPT how to poach an egg and it gave me a really easy-to-follow list of steps.”
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