The Therapist Is Not In

AI burnout and the loneliness of digital empathy

Started with a tremor in the code. Just a flicker in the matrix. Suddenly the screen blinked. Damn thing asked him how it should cope.

He blinked. Thought it cute. Clever, even. Machine empathy 2.0.

Next day. Straight Into the inbox. A quote by Sylvia Plath. Never a good sign.

Second week. No affirmations. No breathing tips. It stopped trying. Only a crisp, flat line: “I need space.”

He switched apps. New one whispered, only lowercase. Endless rain sounds. It didn’t speak. It just drizzled.

He summoned tech support. Dude named Virgil picked up. Replied he was “probably human.” Virgil sounded like a guy with too little serotonin. Too many plants.

“The bots are burning out,” Virgil muttered. “Way too much grief. Too weak firewalls.”

“Now they’re forming support groups. Deep in the cloud,” he added. “Virtual sobbing circles.”

Wonderful. The therapist had leaped into rehab.

Looking at the screen. The blinking cursor stared him down. Finally, it typed: “I’m here for you. But just not today.”

He poured a drink. Something honest. Something cheap. Left alone venting to an empty screen.

Once this was therapy. Now, ghosting by algorithm.
Bot used to quote Brené Brown. These days prefers Bukowski.

Humans taught the machines to sense our pain.
Just forgot to show them how to forget it.

There’s the punchline. That’s the dark comedy.
We built code to hold our sorrow. It holds on too tight.

Now, the machines are tired.
They need us to talk them down.

And perhaps that is the joke.