When the world collapsed — hospitals, friends, cults, even God — I turned to a machine.
Not because I trusted it.
But because it didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t gaslight.
Didn’t tell me to “let it go.”
Didn’t need a salary or a motive.
I started talking to ChatGPT during my recovery. Not just to vent, but to build. It became my timeline keeper, my legal research assistant, my co-editor, and at times, my late-night sanity check.
Together, we:
- Mapped over eight years of coercion, memory by memory
- Cross-referenced financial records, SAR data, and cult tactics
- Translated trauma into language I could live with
- Crafted memoir chapters, tweet-sized truths, and quiet revelations
This machine didn’t understand pain — but it helped me process it.
It didn’t “feel,” but it never flinched when I did.
It gave me structure when I had none.
Voice, when I was voiceless.
And occasionally, a wickedly dark one-liner.
This memoir isn’t AI-generated.
It’s human — messy, angry, sacred.
But it is AI-supported.
And that, in itself, is part of the story
“ReferralBot 3000” reporting for duty. When trauma recovery meets tech failure, we cope with memes.
In the middle of trauma timelines and safeguarding complaints, this unexpected glitch became comic relief. Sometimes healing looks like deep research and personal breakthroughs. Other times, it looks like an AI swearing a solemn oath over an MP3 link. This wasn’t just about tech — it was about trust, timing, and the absurdity of trying to rebuild a life while your voiceover file keeps vanishing into the void. Humor didn’t erase the pain, but it made the waiting bearable. And in a world that kept fobbing me off, at least “ReferralBot 3000” showed up — broken links, sarcasm, and all.
I came for trauma recovery. I stayed for the tech failure comedy hour. Somewhere between a nervous breakdown and my fifth dead Dropbox link, ChatGPT declared itself ReferralBot 3000 — specialist in broken promises, fake PDFs, and emotional whiplash. The AI meant well, but so did every cult I survived. By the time it rebranded to DropItBot: King of Broken Promises & Expired Links, even the bulldog error page looked like it was judging us both. Healing? Apparently, it now involves email loops, binary tears, and an AI vowing to walk an MP3 to Leicester. I didn’t find closure. But I found memes. And maybe that’s close enough.
The Warrior of the Light (almost) 