Journal, Day 4

The thing about memories is, they don't come all at once.

If you don't live through it, the memory just kind of...sits there, I guess, until something triggers it. It's usually small things, irrelevant details. Like when you get a paper cut and remember that you know exactly what it feels like to lose a hand.

Of course, the worst memories do come as flashbacks. Those are the ones they limit you on-You're only allowed to take three of those before they put the job on someone else. And after you take one you have to start meeting regularly with a psychiatrist. Psychiatrist recommends therapist, therapist wants a second opinion on treatment, and suddenly you have a small army of mental health professionals all yelling at you to take your meds.

After I took my first memory my therapist told me to make a journal. Write out what I was feeling. I never really listened to her advice before, but after this one I'll take whatever advice I can get. At the very least, sharpening a pencil is something to distract me.

Sorry I missed day three. I was too busy trying to juggle paperwork with babysitting my niece. That's another thing they don't tell you before you sign up for the job: Most of the time, you're filling out paperwork. There's forms for meeting with a client, releases you have to sign so that you can't sue your employer, confidentiality agreements, bills you have to pay in advance in case the memory you get leaves you comatose. This one did. The power hasn't shut off, though, so it looks like I actually handled something on my own for once. Cue applause.

The side effects of taking memories are kind of like the side effects on the back of a bottle of Asprin: They range from headaches to hospitalization, they're different for every person, and sometimes they flat-out contradict each other. Traumatic ones like this usually manifest as migraines for me, but for some reason this one knocked me out for three days and gave me pneumonia. And of course, I'm not legally allowed to tell anyone why that is.

So that's part of the reason I'm going to burn this journal after I finish this entry. The other part is that I can't stand my own writing. Not even the content; I just have really bad handwriting.

"What's the point of having a therapist if you're not allowed to tell them anything?" I hear you asking. The answer to that is: I have no clue. But as long as my insurance pays for it I, don't really have to worry about that.

Okay, hold on, another thing to add to the symptoms list: My hands are shaking like crazy. I'm trying to make tea right now--Something warm to calm my nerves. Warm. Yeah, cause I'm freezing right now. Why am I freezing? It's ninety-five degrees outside. And inside. The AC broke while I was in the hospital.

GODDAMMIT THAT HURTS. Sorry. I fucking spilled the boiling water on my hand. Weird thing is I didn't feel it for a minute there. Too cold to feel burns, I guess? I did flinch when I saw the water, though.

The best side effect of taking memories is amnesia. Almost always happens, no matter who's doing it or what type they're taking. For a few days you can't remember the last week, month, or in a few cases, year. Right now, I don't remember what it was that I took from that guy. It'll come back to me soon, though. Like I said earlier, it usually takes a trigger.

Alright, tea is off-limits for me. I don't trust myself with hot water or anything spillable. I'm just going to grab a cold pack and try and treat this raging headache. It just showed up but it's

COLD cold ice freezing drop drop drop GET ME OUT GET ME Out out out out cold cold cold cold

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Welcome back, journal. Maybe you missed me, or maybe you didn't because you're an inanimate object. Either way, I'm back.

So, remember how I said memories don't come all at once? Well, it's been a few hours and I've finally pieced together what happened. First it was the ice pack, then a glass of lemonade, then a bath. I looked at my hospital records to confirm.

I am definitely going to burn this journal. My finger is hovering over the call button on my boss's number. I'm about to announce my resignation.

Sorry to let you down, young me. I know you wanted to help people. But good god, why didn't you just become a therapist instead? That would've been easier. And would've paid better.

Although, since my therapist told me it's good to vent, I'll tell you what I remembered before I throw you in my neighbor's fire pit.

First of all, note to self: If you ever find yourself in Greenland, for god's sake don't stand near a bridge. And if you do, don't be stupid enough to jump off.