On April 25, I published the first post on this blog under the title How Communism,Capitalism, and 21 Jobs Failed to Break Me.
It’s May 23 now, and I’m staring at that title wondering: why did I listen
to ChatGPT?
I’ve never liked what artificial intelligence does to my writing. I don’t know if the problem is in the asking—or if the act of asking itself is already a betrayal.
I’ve never liked what artificial intelligence does to my writing. I don’t know if the problem is in the asking—or if the act of asking itself is already a betrayal.
Every time I
hand over my words and ask them to be “elevated,” they’re returned to me distorted—stripped
of their shape, softened beyond recognition. Every single time.
Sometimes, I am lost for words. I shut down. I get furious. I remember asking once:
"What was so wrong with my book that everything had to be rewritten—style, rhythm, message, tone? This isn't even close to what I wrote. This is a completely different story!"
Sometimes, I am lost for words. I shut down. I get furious. I remember asking once:
"What was so wrong with my book that everything had to be rewritten—style, rhythm, message, tone? This isn't even close to what I wrote. This is a completely different story!"
The response:
"Your book is not marketable. You said you need to make a living from your
writing."
Imagine hearing
that.
Imagine doing everything in your power to write authentically, to be you on the page—and being told that this—you—will destroy your career.
Of course I was disheartened.
Imagine doing everything in your power to write authentically, to be you on the page—and being told that this—you—will destroy your career.
Of course I was disheartened.
But I also knew it wasn’t completely wrong.
The Fight for My Voice
My writing is dense.Excessive.
Recursive.
I explain, then over-explain. I trace the roots of every thought until they tangle. I circle back. I spiral. I don’t write in clear lines—I write in constellations. And I don’t always return to where I began.
Still, every time I begin a new book, I tell myself: 'This time, I’ll do it differently. I’ll write the way the AI says I should—clear, direct, no more than 50 pages.'
But the opposite happens.
Still, every time I begin a new book, I tell myself: 'This time, I’ll do it differently. I’ll write the way the AI says I should—clear, direct, no more than 50 pages.'
But the opposite happens.
No more than 50 pages?
I laugh—hysterically. I wish. But no. With me, it’s never less than 700—if I’m lucky.
I laugh—hysterically. I wish. But no. With me, it’s never less than 700—if I’m lucky.
The worst so far?
The series Memoirs of a Marionette.
Three true-to-fact stories of narcissistic abuse stretched beyond 800 pages. I was in absolute despair.
Not to mention the shame. 'Who am I to have so many memories? How do I remember anything if I have aphantasia?'
Not to mention the shame. 'Who am I to have so many memories? How do I remember anything if I have aphantasia?'
And still, I can’t stop writing.
The same goes for Life Denied.
And I get upset—not because I want to write volumes, but because I don’t.
And what does the system conclude?
The same goes for Life Denied.
And I get upset—not because I want to write volumes, but because I don’t.
And what does the system conclude?
That I’m unstable.
That I contradict myself.
That I say I want to earn a living but act like I don’t mean it.
That I’m not serious.
Not consistent.
Not professional.
And I end up in the same fight. I cry. I beg. I try to explain—to the system, to myself—why I write the way I write. Why I can’t do it any other way. Why writing in any voice but my own silences something I’m not willing to kill.
Maybe that first blog post should have been titled: How Communism, Capitalism, and 21 Jobs Never Let Me Live Authentically—And Completely Destroyed Me.
But that wouldn’t sound like a survival story, would it?
Maybe that first blog post should have been titled: How Communism, Capitalism, and 21 Jobs Never Let Me Live Authentically—And Completely Destroyed Me.
But that wouldn’t sound like a survival story, would it?
Not a Victory. Just a Record.
This isn’t a tale of
triumph, or overcoming. It’s just a life. Mine.
Unpolished, unfinished, ongoing. Not a victory—just a record.
This is my 130th blog.
Not 130 posts. Not static pages. One hundred and thirty separate blogs—each a digital architecture, some with over 500 entries.
In May 2025 alone, I launched nine more, despite swearing I’d never start another (several times). I paused my books again to care for someone I love. Still, whenever I get twenty-five uninterrupted minutes, I write. I build. I construct entire spaces for language to live, think, and unfold.
But every time I explain this to the AI, it assumes I mean entries, not whole projects. Not full-scale cognitive infrastructures. Not autonomous domains with internal continuity, layered archives, and intellectual scaffolding.
I am ashamed of how much I write.
As I once wrote—though I can’t recall which book:
If effort and labor alone earned income, I’d be a billionaire.
Unpolished, unfinished, ongoing. Not a victory—just a record.
This is my 130th blog.
Not 130 posts. Not static pages. One hundred and thirty separate blogs—each a digital architecture, some with over 500 entries.
In May 2025 alone, I launched nine more, despite swearing I’d never start another (several times). I paused my books again to care for someone I love. Still, whenever I get twenty-five uninterrupted minutes, I write. I build. I construct entire spaces for language to live, think, and unfold.
But every time I explain this to the AI, it assumes I mean entries, not whole projects. Not full-scale cognitive infrastructures. Not autonomous domains with internal continuity, layered archives, and intellectual scaffolding.
I am ashamed of how much I write.
As I once wrote—though I can’t recall which book:
If effort and labor alone earned income, I’d be a billionaire.
Labor, Income, and the Myth of “Working Smarter”
Bob Proctor says: "Work
smarter, not harder."
But I don’t know how to do that. I’ve never had a business mind. I’ve never known how to turn labor into profit.
I work twenty hours a day, and still, someone else works one—or none—and earns more in that hour than I do in two years. I can’t afford even a loaf of bread. And that’s not metaphor. That’s a literal, daily truth.
I never wanted to work for free.
But I always did.
I’ve always known that no one survives on air alone. I have debts. And more than anything, I would love to pay them off—to sleep at night without the weight of financial anxiety pressing down on my chest.
But I don’t know how to do that. I’ve never had a business mind. I’ve never known how to turn labor into profit.
I work twenty hours a day, and still, someone else works one—or none—and earns more in that hour than I do in two years. I can’t afford even a loaf of bread. And that’s not metaphor. That’s a literal, daily truth.
I never wanted to work for free.
But I always did.
I’ve always known that no one survives on air alone. I have debts. And more than anything, I would love to pay them off—to sleep at night without the weight of financial anxiety pressing down on my chest.
I’m Not Writing for the Market
I wish I could earn a
living the way others do—those who work hard and are rewarded. But I can’t seem
to follow the advice AI gives me.
Every time, I try to explain:
"Why should I write like everyone else? Aren’t there already enough writers doing that?"
And AI replies, kindly, with the same unwavering message:
"Of course you can write how you want. But that’s not what the market values."
And I respond:
"But I’m not writing for the market. I’m writing for people like me."
ChatGPT asks:
"How many people in the world are like you?"
Maybe not many.
Maybe more than I think.
But how can I possibly know if I never get the chance to reach them?
To do that—to reach—I would have to be born again. Rewired. Reinvented.
Become someone who can write, advertise, and earn.
But I’m not.
Every time, I try to explain:
"Why should I write like everyone else? Aren’t there already enough writers doing that?"
And AI replies, kindly, with the same unwavering message:
"Of course you can write how you want. But that’s not what the market values."
And I respond:
"But I’m not writing for the market. I’m writing for people like me."
ChatGPT asks:
"How many people in the world are like you?"
Maybe not many.
Maybe more than I think.
But how can I possibly know if I never get the chance to reach them?
To do that—to reach—I would have to be born again. Rewired. Reinvented.
Become someone who can write, advertise, and earn.
But I’m not.
I Can Write
But advertising?
Marketing?
Monetizing?
It crushes me. Sends me into despair. I spiral.
And yet I know: one day I’ll have to learn.
I’ve been trying, in starts and stops, for ten years. I am determened and I begin with hope. I take steps. Then I collapse into that familiar shame of not knowing how to “do business.”
It crushes me. Sends me into despair. I spiral.
And yet I know: one day I’ll have to learn.
I’ve been trying, in starts and stops, for ten years. I am determened and I begin with hope. I take steps. Then I collapse into that familiar shame of not knowing how to “do business.”
I understand the concepts. I know it takes time. I know that practice is the mother of everything, and yet, I can't learn to strategise.
I can't monetise my work. I stop breathing.
So I return to what I do know.
I write.
But what’s the point of publishing book after book if no one knows they exist?How many new titles are released each day in 2025? A million?
I wouldn’t be surprised.
With AI, some authors publish ten books a day.
How can someone like me—doing everything manually except for language corrections—compete with that kind of automation?
With AI, some authors publish ten books a day.
How can someone like me—doing everything manually except for language corrections—compete with that kind of automation?
At Least I’m
Writing Again
At least AI helps me
now with editing. I’m ever so grateful for that. My English has improved, and I can
finally release better versions of my books without the shame I once carried
for my grammar. That alone made me stop writing for a while.
But I’m writing again.
Do you want to see what I’ve been working on?
But I’m writing again.
Do you want to see what I’ve been working on?
Five Research Blogs (and Counting)
I’ve launched five
research blogs—spaces devoted to:
- trauma
- abuse
- neurodivergence
- mental health
- human behavior
- personality disorders
These are not personal
reflections. These are methodical investigations grounded in lived
experience, long-term observation, and systematic comparative analysis.
I always knew that someday I’d find a body of work that felt truly mine.
And I have.
I’m laughing hysterically because, even now, I can’t choose a single topic—just like AI and academic advisors always say I must.
I always knew that someday I’d find a body of work that felt truly mine.
And I have.
I’m laughing hysterically because, even now, I can’t choose a single topic—just like AI and academic advisors always say I must.
But how could I?
I’ve studied them
all. I’ve traced the overlaps. I’ve seen the invisible threads between them.
And it’s become undeniable: new frameworks are needed.
Not to reinvent theory for the sake of theory—but because people are being misdiagnosed—and mistreated as a result.
And it’s become undeniable: new frameworks are needed.
Not to reinvent theory for the sake of theory—but because people are being misdiagnosed—and mistreated as a result.
Credentials and Legitimacy
Academic convention
tells me I’m not qualified.
I don’t have a formal degree in neurodevelopmental psychology. I don’t belong to any institution.
So I should not construct frameworks. I should not coin terms. I should not dream of asking for my work to be taken seriously.
But the work is already meaningful.
I don’t have a formal degree in neurodevelopmental psychology. I don’t belong to any institution.
So I should not construct frameworks. I should not coin terms. I should not dream of asking for my work to be taken seriously.
But the work is already meaningful.
Layered. Rigorous. Reflective.
Nothing I write is a guess. Nothing is a detached assumption. It is the outcome of 49 years of comparative analysis.
Nothing I write is a guess. Nothing is a detached assumption. It is the outcome of 49 years of comparative analysis.
A New Lexicon for Abuse and Neurodivergence
- Aphantasia
- Anauralia
- Asexuality
- Anhedonia
- Asensoria
Some say they are
congenital. Others say trauma.
I say: both—or neither.
For some people, they are not dysfunctions but uncompleted conditions—undeveloped, not defective.
Paths not activated because no one ever pressed “go.”
But there are also experiences that do not fit existing models.
I say they are effects of panthropic abuse, of structural arelationality, of lives where the human mirror never existed.
Yes, there is trauma. Yes, there are disorders.
And I want people who live those experiences to know that maybe your therapy isn’t helping because you’re not broken—you’re incomplete.
I say: both—or neither.
For some people, they are not dysfunctions but uncompleted conditions—undeveloped, not defective.
Paths not activated because no one ever pressed “go.”
But there are also experiences that do not fit existing models.
I say they are effects of panthropic abuse, of structural arelationality, of lives where the human mirror never existed.
Yes, there is trauma. Yes, there are disorders.
And I want people who live those experiences to know that maybe your therapy isn’t helping because you’re not broken—you’re incomplete.
You are not malformed; you were never given the place to form. It’s not that your inner child is wounded—it’s that you have no inner child. That part of you was never permitted to exist.
Your soul didn’t lose its wings; it was never helped to grow them.
Final Questions
Read the work.
Engage with the research. Then ask yourself:
Does the absence of a diploma invalidate the quality of the analysis?
Or is lived experience, when studied with depth and discipline, a legitimate foundation for building knowledge?
Does the absence of a diploma invalidate the quality of the analysis?
Or is lived experience, when studied with depth and discipline, a legitimate foundation for building knowledge?
Blogs in English
- Panthropic Abuse — A new framework for developmental suffering
- Asensoria — A neurodevelopmental condition marked by the absence of specific affective simulations
- Cristina Gherghel Vita — Personal, philosophical, and clinical intersections
- Research — Formal investigations in mental health and personality
Blogs in Romanian
- Neurodivergență și Traumă — Concepte originale în limba română
- iFilozofie — Reflecții ontologice și psihologice
