Let’s unpack our need to unpack the whole “woman on TikTok who fell in love with her psychiatrist” saga.

First the facts: Kendra Hilty recently posted 25 videos on TikTok in which she discussed her decision to end four years of 30-minute monthly sessions (most of them on Zoom) with a male psychiatrist who prescribed her medication. At some point during their sessions, Hilty revealed her romantic feelings for him, feelings that she now — supported by comments she says were made by her therapist and a ChatGPT she has named Henry — believes the psychiatrist willingly fostered, leveraged and enjoyed.

Millions of people tuned in, though the fascination appears to have been less about the alleged actions and motivations of the psychiatrist (who has wisely chosen, thus far, to remain silent) and more focused on Hilty’s detailed description of certain encounters and her deep subtext readings of what they might have meant.

Many responded so negatively that Hilty turned off her comments for a while as hundreds made posts across social media eviscerating or satirizing the series. Soon enough, as happens with viral content, legacy media got involved and all the catch-up “unpacking” began.

Unlike Reesa Teesa, whose multi-post tale of marriage to a pathological liar went viral on TikTok last year and led to a TV adaptation, Hilty hasn’t become a universal figure of sympathy and courage. As she recently told People magazine, she has received “nonstop bullying” and threats along with the dozens of DMs thanking her for sharing her story. She has been accused of racism (the psychiatrist is a man of color), narcissism and, well, insanity. (She says she is, however, open to having her story adapted to film or television.)

To say the posts are troubling is an understatement. I was alerted to them by a friend who had previously expressed concern about young people using ChatGPT as a de facto therapist — a trend alarming enough to draw warnings from Open AI Chief Executive Sam Altman and move Illinois, Utah and Nevada to ban the use of AI in mental health therapy. “There’s a woman on TikTok having a full-blown ChatGPT-induced meltdown,” this friend texted me. “This is a real problem.”

Certainly, Hilty appeared to be having real problems, which ChatGPT, with its programmed tendency to validate users’ views and opinions, undoubtedly inflamed. But given the viral reaction to her posts, so are we.

Even as countless studies suggest that social media is, for myriad reasons, detrimental to mental health, its users continue to consume and comment on videos and images of people undergoing mental and emotional crises as if they were DIY episodes of “Fleabag.”

So the question is not “who is this woman obsessing about her relationship with her psychiatrist” but why are so many of us watching her do it? It’s one thing to become transfixed by a fictional character going down a scripted wormhole for the purposes of narrative enlightenment or comedy. It’s another when some poor soul is doing it in front of their phone in real life.

It’s even worse when the “star” of the video is not a willing participant. Social media and the ubiquity of smartphones have allowed citizens to expose instances of genuine, and often institutionalized, racism, sexism, homophobia and consumer exploitation. But for every “Karen” post that reveals bigotry, abuse or unacceptable rudeness, there are three that capture someone clearly having a mental or emotional breakdown (or just a very, very bad day).

With social media largely unregulated, they are all lumped in together and it has become far too easy to use it as the British elite once purportedly used psychiatric hospital Bedlam: to view the emotionally troubled and mentally ill as if they were exhibits in a zoo.

Hilty believes she is helping to identify a real problem and is, obviously, the author of her own exposure, as are many people who post themselves deconstructing a bad relationship, reacting to a crisis or experiencing emotional distress. All social media posts exist to capture attention, and the types that do tend to be repeated. Sharing one’s trauma can elicit sympathy, support, insight and even help. But “sadfishing,” as it is often called, can also make a bad situation worse, from viewers questioning the authenticity and intention of the post to engaging in brutal mockery and bullying.

Those who are caught on camera as they melt down over one thing or another could wind up as unwitting symbols of privilege or stupidity or the kind of terrible service/consumer we’re expected to deal with today. Some are undoubtedly arrogant jerks who have earned a public comeuppance (and if the fear of being filmed keeps even one person from shouting at some poor overworked cashier or barista, that can only be a good thing).

But others are clearly beset by problems that go far deeper than not wanting to wait in line or accept that their flight has been canceled.

It is strange that in a culture where increased awareness of mental health realities and challenges have led to so many positive changes, including to the vernacular, people still feel free to film, post, watch and judge strangers who have lost control without showing any concern for context or consequence.

I would like to say I never watch videos of people having a meltdown or behaving badly, but that would be a big fat lie. They’re everywhere and I enjoy the dopamine thrill of feeling outraged and superior as much as the next person. (Again, I am not talking about videos that capture bigotry, institutional abuse or physical violence.)

I watched Hilty for research but I quickly found myself caught up in her minute dissection and seemingly wild projection. I too found myself judging her, silently but not in a kind way. (“No one talks about being in love with their shrink? Girl, it’s literary and cinematic canon.” “How, in all those years in therapy, have you never heard of transference?” “Why do you keep saying you don’t want this guy fired while arguing that he abused the doctor-patient relationship?”)

As the series wore on, her pain, if not its actual source, became more and more evident and my private commentary solidified into: “For the love of God, put down your phone.”

Since she was not about to, I did. Because me watching her wasn’t helping either of us.

Except to remind me of times when my own mental health felt precarious, when obsession and paranoia seemed like normal reactions and my inner pain drove me to do and say things I very much regret. These are memories that I will continue to hold and own but I am eternally grateful that no one, including myself, captured them on film, much less shared them with the multitudes.

Those who make millions off the mostly unpaid labor of social media users show no signs of protecting their workers with oversight or regulation. But no one goes viral in a vacuum. Decades ago, the popularity of “America’s Funniest Home Videos” answered the question of whether people’s unscripted pain should be offered up as entertainment and now we live in a world where people are willing to do and say the most intimate and anguished things in front of a reality TV crew.

Still, when one of these types of videos pops up or goes viral, there’s no harm in asking “why exactly am I watching this” and “what if it were me?”