I don’t really want to get into why, but I lost my job and needed some quick cash. I’ve participated in various research studies and medical trials before, so I thought it would be an easy way to tide me over until I found another gig.

I don’t really want to get into why, but I lost my job and needed some quick cash. I’ve participated in various research studies and medical trials before, so I thought it would be an easy way to tide me over until I found another gig. I came across an ad for a medical study that paid surprisingly well, so I signed up without giving it much thought.

The building was enormous, and I got completely turned around. The long, identical white hallways blurred together as I searched for room 312. I arrived late, but the staff was unexpectedly understanding. They explained that the study focused on déjà vu, and full participation required the insertion of a microchip into the brain.

Look, I really didn’t want a chip implanted in my head. But the money was too good to pass up, and my rent wasn’t going to pay itself.

They explained that déjà vu was essentially a glitch in a specific area of the brain, which they had managed to isolate. Once inserted, the chip would create constant, minor stress to that area, making déjà vu more likely to occur. All I needed to do was record the details leading up to any “episode” I experienced. This would help them identify patterns and specific triggers, which they could then use to induce an episode in the lab while monitoring my brain activity.

I signed the consent forms, and they performed the procedure right then and there. Being awake while something entered my skull was unnerving, but overall it was relatively quick and painless. Afterward, I experienced a dull ache at the insertion site, which was listed among the potential side effects. Other possible side effects included nausea, insomnia, phantom odors, minor confusion, and increased heart rate during an episode.

So, I expected some side effects. I expected some minor confusion. But what I’ve experienced since then has gone so far beyond that, I no longer know what to do.

My first episode seemed tame compared to what followed, but at the time, it deeply unsettled me. About a week after the insertion, I made my morning coffee the same way I always do. I started the coffee maker, took the cream from the fridge, and grabbed a mug while it brewed. When the coffee finished, I picked up the pot and began pouring into my cup. That’s when it hit me.

It came on like a rush, as if I’d ridden a wave backward in time and was reliving a recording of the moment that had passed only seconds ago. I know I pour my coffee the same way every morning, but this was different. I hadn’t just poured coffee like this before—I had lived this very moment.

The rush faded, leaving me in a strange daze unlike any déjà vu I’d experienced before. My vision blurred, and I moved on autopilot as I poured the last bit into my mug. I picked it up and took a sip.

It wasn’t coffee.

The unfamiliar taste snapped me out of my daze. My mug was filled with pure cream. Confused, I stared at it, trying to understand what had happened. I vividly remembered picking up the coffee pot and pouring it into my mug. But when I looked back, the coffee pot was full and untouched. The cream container sat open on the counter, half empty.

They said minor confusion was a side effect of déjà vu episodes, but I had started pouring before the déjà vu hit, so it made no sense. It was unsettling, but I eventually accepted it, tried to transfer the cream back into its container, and poured an actual cup of coffee.

I convinced myself it wasn’t a big deal, something I now regret.

The second episode occurred three days later. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth before bed—nothing unusual. As always, my mind wandered in different directions, never fully focused on the actual brushing, though I remained conscious and aware.

Of course I’ve brushed my teeth in this same spot countless times, but when the déjà vu rush hit me, I was certain I had rewound time and was reliving this exact experience. The way I looked at myself in the mirror, the precise movements of the bristles sweeping across my teeth, side to side, up and down…

The rush faded as I continued brushing, but my mouth tasted absolutely foul. Bitter. It burned—it burned so badly I couldn’t breathe. I found myself standing over my kitchen sink, heart pounding violently as I desperately gasped for air, spitting out a gritty white foam. I spat and spat, but it wouldn’t go away.

I released the death grip I hadn’t realized I had on my toothbrush and frantically reached for the faucet. I yanked the water on and shoved my head underneath, the water splashing both inside my mouth and all over my face. A powdery substance remained stuck between my molars, and I swished water aggressively to dislodge it.

After several minutes of rinsing, I turned off the faucet and paused. Everything was quiet except for occasional water droplets falling from my face into the metal sink. My mouth still burned, the foul taste lingering. But I was okay. My panic was subsiding.

The toothbrush I had been gripping sat next to the kitchen sink. It wasn’t my regular toothbrush—it was the one I kept under the sink for cleaning. And for that, I used Comet: the powdered cleaner.

This was beyond unsettling—it was terrifying. My mouth continued burning, and I couldn’t imagine what might have happened if I had swallowed. I threw up shortly afterward and barely slept that night. I planned to call the research clinic first thing in the morning to have the chip removed.

But when I called the following morning, the clinic was closed. Being unemployed makes it easy to lose track of days, and I discovered it was Saturday. I didn’t want to stay home, but I was too scared to leave. That day, I just watched TV. I didn’t eat or even brush my teeth. That day, I experienced no déjà vu.

The next day, I couldn’t bear to stay home any longer. I was afraid of being alone if something terrible happened. These mundane tasks… I didn’t want to do them. I didn’t want to leave, but I forced myself to. I packed my things and went to the gym, thinking it might be harder to do something dangerous while surrounded by people.

My stomach growled during the drive, but my mouth still burned. Parts near my back molars were completely raw. I packed my toothbrush just in case, but I was too scared to use it. I probably looked awful, but I didn’t care. I hid inside my baggy hoodie and baseball cap.

Despite being hungry and in pain, the workout boosted my spirits. I felt safer around people, and though terrified the déjà vu might strike again, I somehow felt I’d rather it happen here. I worked my arms until they refused to move, then moved to the stairmaster.

I don’t know how long I’d been climbing before the rush hit me, but it was stronger than previous times. I felt with absolute certainty that I had stepped on this machine in this exact way, at this exact time. I had rewound my timeline and was watching it play out. My vision blurred completely, but I continued climbing. Up and up and up.

The rush wore off, leaving me in that familiar daze. But I kept climbing—up and up and up—only now my footsteps sounded different. With every step, a metallic clang rang out. It was slippery. It was raining.

I slipped and lost my balance. The jolt snapped me from my daze, and I instinctively grabbed a metal post connecting the platform to a handrail. My hands gripped the wet, slippery metal with what little strength I had left, while my legs dangled in the air about 100 feet up.

I was hanging off the side of a fire escape in the rain, desperately trying not to fall to my death. My fingers turned white as they gripped the post, but they were sliding—I was going to fall.

I experienced the most intense adrenaline rush of my life and somehow managed to pull myself up. My fingers slipped off the pole just as I pulled myself to safety, then I scrambled forward and clung to the side of the building.

I remained crouched in that position for what felt like forever. I never fully calmed down, but eventually gathered enough courage to begin climbing down. The building looked old and possibly abandoned, and I had no idea how I’d gotten there.

I sat on the stairs, slowly and carefully lowering myself one step at a time.

I cried when my feet hit the pavement and I saw my car parked on the street. I didn’t know where I was, but it felt unsafe—several abandoned warehouse buildings surrounded me. Trash swirled in the wind before being beaten down by the rain, which now fell much more heavily.

My phone sat on the passenger seat, though I don’t know how it got there. I would never leave it there, especially in an area like this. But I picked it up, entered directions, and drove straight home, shaking and crying the entire way.

Somehow, I managed to sleep. I woke early the next morning and stared at my phone until exactly 8:00, when the research clinic opened.

My desperation poured through my voice as I begged the receptionist to let me come in and get the chip removed. I explained I was experiencing severe side effects and needed immediate removal. She hesitated but scheduled me for a 3PM appointment. I drove there immediately after hanging up and waited in my car for hours. I wasn’t taking any chances.

I went in at 2:30. I was done waiting. I broke down as soon as I entered the waiting room, overwhelmed with relief at finally getting this thing removed. A nurse put her arm around me and guided me to a patient room. She took my vitals and waited with me until the clinician arrived. I felt so grateful she stayed—I didn’t want to be alone.

I explained everything to the clinician. He had the audacity to try convincing me to keep the chip, but I wouldn’t budge, not after what happened. He explained confusion was a common side effect, but I told him I didn’t care. I told him his research wasn’t as important as my life, and he reluctantly agreed to remove the chip.

They prepared everything, and I was placed in the exact same chair as before, when they inserted the chip just a week earlier.

I sat there as the clinician spoke, guiding me through each step. He told me he was making the incision, then said he was inserting the metal rod used to extract the microchip. I sat as still as possible while the rod slowly entered my head.

I knew I had sat in that chair before. I knew I had experienced that rod in my head. But now, I felt certain this familiar feeling wasn’t from the first insertion. It was from right then. I had already experienced the chip removal and was now reliving it.

I screamed so loudly my ears hurt, then slipped into a daze. Something painful struck my head. It struck again, more intensely than before. The pain became unbearable as it pounded into my head, over and over, in the same spot. My vision blurred completely, and the smell of blood filled my nose.

I snapped out of my daze and nearly vomited from the pain. My eyes darted around, afraid to move. But when I looked, no one was there—no lab assistants, no monitors, equipment, or tools. I was in a large, dark room. The walls were torn apart, and water leaked through cracks in the ceiling. It was dark, damp, and reeked of mold.

My head throbbed terribly, and I instinctively dropped what I was holding to cover my head, which was bleeding down my shirt. Metal clanked against concrete, and I looked down to see a long, blood-covered screwdriver beside me. I was sitting in this old, run-down warehouse with blood pouring from my head and a screwdriver next to me. No one else was there. I had done this to myself.

I barely remember leaving the warehouse. I felt paralyzed inside, but eventually made it out. My car was parked on the street—in the same place as yesterday, when I had climbed the fire escape of what I now realized was the same building. Again, my phone sat on the passenger seat.

I was bleeding heavily and not thinking clearly. I called an ambulance, but they never came. I called the clinic, but no one answered. I called another ambulance, but again, no response. I sat in my car for what felt like hours before giving up and driving home.

I’m sitting in bed now, on my phone. I’ve been scrolling for hours and finally decided to write this post. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try going to a hospital, but I’m not sure of anything right now. I don’t know if I trust anyone to remove the chip after what happened.

But one thing feels certain now. As I type this, it’s becoming clear. I’ve typed this very sentence before. Just now. This too—I went back, and now I’m here again. This story, these words… I just wrote this. I wrote this before, and now I’m writing it again, I’m certain. These words… I’m certain I’ve written them before.