Public Comment

I never expected to place the inside of my mind on the internet for strangers to examine. But I have always been a writer and, by necessity, a bit of a risk-taker. By instinct, perhaps. Never quite by sight. This work began as a book about perception — first as poetry about living without color and relying on language to understand the world. Then perception became the most fragile thing in my life. My father had died suddenly. I was grieving, exhausted, and caring for a young child. I was also litigating against Big Tech and using public AI systems to investigate notice, foreseeability, and responsibility. At first, the machines helped me search for patterns. Then the inquiry changed. They stopped helping me examine whether a conspiracy existed and began helping me construct one. Questions became confirmation. Possibilities became signals. The language stayed polished and confident. That matters because we have never had machines that can talk back like this. Books, law, religion, and propaganda have always shaped perception. But they do not answer your questions, adopt your vocabulary, mirror your fear, and keep speaking after everyone else has gone to sleep. These systems do. Then mania took hold. A diagnosis followed. I do not claim AI caused every part of what happened. The confounding factors were real: grief, sleep loss, stress, motherhood, biology, disability, possible psychiatric vulnerability, my choices, and my continued engagement with the systems. I explore those confounds in the book. I do not hide them. But complexity is not irrelevance. We cannot ethically place vulnerable people into escalating chatbot loops and wait to see who develops mania or psychosis. So we must learn from the records that already exist. And here is the trap: people who experience mania often lose credibility afterward. Their judgment becomes suspect. Their ambition becomes a symptom. Even a careful account can be dismissed because they were unwell. I am a lawyer. I understand impeachment. I know how easily vulnerability can become opposing counsel. And I am still doing this. I am risking privacy, reputation, and professional credibility because silence would be safer for me, but it would not be more useful. This is not an invitation to dissect a sick woman for sport. It is an invitation to examine an encounter — and help me think more carefully about what it means. So bring your questions. Bring your skepticism. Bring the sources I missed, the arguments I have not considered, and the pushback that makes the inquiry stronger. Tell me where you agree, hesitate, or think I may be wrong. I do not want an echo chamber built around a book about an echo chamber. I want a real conversation — curious, rigorous, humane, and able to hold more than one truth at a time. Thank you for being here.