Post-SQUIP Jeremy is semi-verbal leaning on nonverbal. He speaks in his mind most of the time. He can't exactly tell which thoughts are his and which are the SQUIP's, despite the fact it's gone. He disassociates to the point he forgets parts of his day, or the whole of it. He forgets to reply to people. Maybe he thinks he replies to them, except he's not sure if he did, because parts of his memory have been tampered with and he doesn't know what is real and what isn't, even though it's gone. His own brain replaced the SQUIP. He's been so used to its treatment that he adjusted to become its replacement.
His senses are way more heightened than they're supposed to be. Or maybe that's how it's always been, way before the SQUIP fixed helped him. Maybe his clothes have always felt too suffocating and itchy, and maybe he needed new glasses in the first place. Perched on his nose, too light. Too heavy. Too wrong. Too right. Too normal. Too weird.
It's made perfectly for him. He's perfectly himself. He hates it.
Jeremy hates the SQUIP. Jeremy hates that the SQUIP left. Jeremy is scared of the SQUIP. Jeremy is scared that he'll mess things up, now that the SQUIP is gone. Jeremy is scared that it'll come back, and things will go wrong again. Jeremy is glad and is sad and is disgusted and is relieved and is confused about the fact he's Jeremy again. Jeremy is Jeremy. He's human. He's himself. He's making his own decisions and trying his best.
He hates it and he loves it. He doesn't miss the SQUIP. But he misses the familiarity. So he reverts. He regresses. Just so he can feel comfortable. Not safe, because that's not what safe feels like, but he's in his zone, and that's okay for him.