When I clicked to add a post (my first of 2023, a desperate bid to inspire myself to return to writing), I discovered a new button twitching in the upper left corner of my drafter. Yes, actually twitching, jiggling back and forth every few seconds to catch my attention. It succeeded, and upon hovering my mouse over the lightning bolt icon, I was not surprised by the floating text announcing Squarespace AI.
AI is already selling itself to me in so many places. It offers to write emails on my behalf. It conjures descriptions of parties I want to throw with my friends. It wants to banter with me on SnapChat.
It’s already old news that ChatGPT and its brethren are not reliable resources. At this stage, AI is a smooth liar, citing papers that don’t exist and inventing reasonable-sounding but ultimately inaccurate answers to the questions it begs us to ask (sometimes with costly consequences). Some say that the current shortcomings are nothing to worry about; just a nuanceless mirroring of linguistic patterns that can’t match the human voice.
That may be true right now, but how quickly will it advance? And even if the product is subpar, are the hollow paragraphs and overly-rendered art pieces of today already enough to take work away from living creators? Gotta say, it was deeply disheartening to rev myself up to work on some overdue creative writing only to discover the hungry phantom that is wide-spread AI text generation haunting my drafting screen with its annoying “LOOK AT ME!!!” wriggling.
Sure, “Squarespace AI (beta)”, go ahead. Write about my experience of top surgery, the original subject of this post:
“I underwent top surgery two years ago and it has been life-changing. As a transgender man, having a chest that aligns with my gender identity has brought immense relief and joy. The surgery itself was a major undertaking, but my surgeon and medical team were incredibly skilled and supportive throughout the process. The recovery period was challenging, but I had a great support system to ensure that I was taking proper care of myself. Overall, having top surgery has allowed me to feel more confident and comfortable in my own skin, and I am grateful for the opportunity to have had it.”
Oh sweetheart, I WISH it was two years ago. Anyway, what a detail to provide, surely not stolen from some other trans person’s writing.
Because that’s what AI is right now: a regurgitation machine. It’s a toy and a shortcut and a plagiarist and a hallucinating self-appointed professor. But it won’t be like that forever. In fact, there are concerns about the pace at which this technology is developing, the lack of constraints on it, and even the potentially apocalyptic consequences of its present trajectory.
A little paranoid? Maybe, but hey, I’m originally a science fiction writer, after all. With the rise of political deepfakes, AI chat “buddies” that feed and grow off our interaction with them, and art-thieving image generators, I feel my anxiety is at least a little justified.
I mean, that little AI blurb about top surgery was essentially accurate. Yes, I absolutely felt relief and joy, and recovery was uncomfortable at best, and I had a great support system. Like, a really, really great support system. I have very rarely felt the kind of communal love that I received in the weeks before and after my top surgery. Friends and family were so incredibly generous both financially and emotionally. Over and over, I was moved to tears by the kindness I experienced in those magic weeks.
Yes, that blurb summed the general feeling up, but it doesn’t know me, doesn’t know how nervous I was for days before my surgery because it felt like it might be yanked away from me, something I fretted about even as I donned the surgical gown in my little pre-surgery cubicle (backwards, because, you know, the nervousness). It doesn’t know the sudden desperation I felt when I realized anti-trans legislation was closing in around me, the fear that choked my heart like strangling vines at the thought that my long-delayed surgery would be delayed even further (or worse). AI couldn’t know, much less express, just how much of a struggle it was for me to give up on my original surgeon and seek out someone out-of-pocket, someone I couldn’t afford without the incredible, tear-inducing assistance of loved ones and strangers alike.
Only I can share the lived truth of my experience. There are so many details I could call upon, like how I tried to take a shower the day after my surgery, accidentally tugged my blood-filled drainage bulbs, and genuinely thought I was going to pass out on the pink and blue tiles of the bathroom floor. It was worth it to rinse off the hospital smell, and I had my partner’s supportive, experienced arms to keep me on my feet.
Oh man, I could go on and on about those damn bulbs, which dangled, gory and translucent, from both sides of my ribs like some sort of deep sea parasite. And when they came out? Somehow, I hadn’t realized just how deep they went, and when the nurse pulled them free, it felt like she was tugging flaming snakes out of my pecs by their tails.
It was all worth it. I am overjoyed! I am grateful! I am still in awe of my own reflection as I massage jojoba oil into my purple-pink scars every night, and last week, I went swimming with my top off (don’t tell my surgeon). At last, my shirts button evenly over my torso and I don’t have to worry about throwing on a binder to answer the door. To my absolute delight, I can cross my arms and wear tank-tops and hug my friends without feeling constantly aware of my chest!
I don’t know what the future holds, but hey, even if we are plunging deeper into a cyberpunk dystopia, at least I’m entering it feeling more myself than ever.
And, you know, tit-free. That feels pretty damn good.
Enjoy this very flattering photo of me asleep on the couch after coming home from surgery. The fortress of pillows was a necessary line of defense between me and my incredibly clingy Chihuahuas.