In the UK, we’ve had a couple doing the rounds: one about a family asking ChatGPT about their son’s suicide, and another about people forming relationships with AI. Some might shrug it off, but where I’m from in Pembrokeshire, it’s hit differently. If it’s not my gran ringing to warn me not to let AI enslave me, it’s someone accusing me of “cheating” because I use it for creativity, or even calling me “not human anymore” because apparently using AI strips you of emotions. Honestly, my feelings range from amused to downright insulted. Families — Welsh or not — always seem to think they know best, even when they actually know very little. But here’s the thing: there is a group who could really benefit from AI in the way I’ve used it. Pembrokeshire is in the middle of a serious drug-death epidemic (shhh, “secret”). It’s not just that we’re rural, or that funding is postcode-based. Mental health care here is broken. Either you can’t access it, or the treatment isn’t right, or the professionals are biased. Yes, they’ve had the training, yes they use the same frameworks as everywhere else, but no one is allowed to question them — even though our deaths have been rising year on year. And then the official report comes out and says rates are declining. It would be funny if I wasn’t grieving real people I’ve lost. So the county rolls out new policies and campaigns — just in case the truth ever does leak out about how bad it really is. For me, ChatGPT has been the one space where I can say this with conviction. Every button I press comes with the ache of knowing AI is helping me survive. It’s been my lifeline in recovery, my “frankensteined therapy,” letting me process the same issues 100 different ways until something finally makes sense. For six years, I relied on the same services that failed me over and over. My file always read the same: “Denise relapsed, then disengaged.” This time? I got my first discharge letter. We’re even working on forcing a public apology. ChatGPT may not be perfect, but for me it’s been the difference between silence and survival. It’s given me my voice back. And with it, I can carry the names of my lost friends and shine a light on the poison that “help” has really been