A/N: Hey guys!

This idea struck me randomly a few nights ago and I thought I'd give it a shot. It's definitely different from what I've done before. Let's see if you guys like it or not.

In this story, TDI never happened (I guess that means it's an AU?), though some characters do make an appearance.

Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

xxxxxx

Prologue

I want to stay alive. I really do want to live and be alive and continue on.

I repeated the words over and over, whispering quietly as I ran my fingers alongside the smooth buttons on the side of my hospital bed.

It wasn't quite a sudden realization. In fact, I couldn't exactly pinpoint when I'd had the rapid change of heart. Most people say it happens right after you do It. After all, that was a part of the tragedy: a person gets ready to do It, leaves their note saying goodbye, gets whatever they need to do It, but right after taking the plunge, they regret their months or years or maybe only days of planning and suddenly want to cling to life again. Of course, they get bonus points if It is successful and they're gone, because the story just gets that much sadder.

But no, I was different. When I tried It, I didn't plan it or even fully realize what I was doing. I tried It after having spent some odd hours in my room, crying and throwing a fit as usual. I wanted an escape from the bad feelings. I was sick and tired of emotions. I ran straight into the kitchen, dug through the medicine cabinet, and just started swallowing anything and everything. All of my rational thinking had flown straight out the window, and I stayed on autopilot as I swallowed and swallowed, crying and screaming.

I guess it was a good thing that my judgment had been clouded enough to not realize my father was in the next room. I briefly heard him scream and call for an ambulance before blacking out.

Next thing I knew, I was here, laying in a hospital bed, with a complete change of heart. Well, sort of. I didn't feel any great passion towards staying alive. I guess it would be easier to say that I didn't want to be dead.

And for me, that was one step further than I'd been for years.

xxxxx

"How are you feeling, Ms. McLaren?" some nurse asked as she took down my vitals.

I shrugged. "Well, considering I've done nothing but lay in bed and watch T.V. for twelve hours straight, I don't have too many feelings at all. Who needs them, right?"

The nurse grimaced, clearly uncomfortable with my, uh, blunt sarcasm towards the situation. She rolled her eyes and walked out, not saying a word.

"For God's sake, lady, it's just a joke. Don't have a cow," I muttered to the empty room.

Next Mom walks in, rambling in Chinese to her cell phone, probably complaining about the whole situation to my Lao Lao, which was just great. I needed another reason for my grandmother to be ashamed of me.

"Zàijiàn," Mom muttered into the phone before snapping it shut, exhaling sharply. "Heather, what have you done here?"

I rolled my eyes. "What, did the doctors not fill you in?"

"Heather! This is not a time for your nasty remarks! You have really scared your father and I. The whole town has heard of what has happened. All we want to know is…why?"

Her thick accent and overly proper English really bothered me sometimes.

"Why does anybody do it? I was sad and I was sick of living."

"Are you going to try it again?"

I shook my head. "I decided it's something I don't want after all. I'll have to come up with another plan."

Mom sighed, shutting her eyes briefly. "Why did you not tell us of your feelings? Why did you not ask to see a therapist? Dad and I would pay for therapy if you need it."

"I tried! You guys didn't listen! You guys never listen and that's part of the reason why I'm even here!"

Silence. I sensed Mom trying to fight back tears. Normally I would've felt guilty, but I was angry as hell.

"The family is very worried," Mom whispered, changing the subject.

I focused my attention on my nails, avoiding eye contact. "Since when do they care? I thought I was too white for them."

And for the record, it was true. They stopped talking to Mom for a couple of years after she married my Dad and not a "nice, Chinese man". They eventually came around but were always really uncomfortable around my sister and I. It's like the stereotype goes: we were too Chinese for my Dad's white family, and too white for my mom's Chinese family.

"You know that they love you so very dearly Heather. Lao Lao and Lao Li send their highest condolences."

The doctor stepped into the room before I had a chance to respond.

"Good news, Heather. Your body has returned to normal levels. You should be ready for check out within the next hour."

Mom grinned, tears beginning to stream down from her eyes. "Oh great thanks doctor for saving our dear daughter."

The doctor nodded, donning an insincere half-smile across her face. It gave me chills; she seemed so unfazed to what had happened over the past twenty-four hours.

"Heather, Mrs. McLaren…we would like to discuss where to go next. It's obvious, Heather, that you will need to seek consistent professional attention in order to best ensure a steady recovery."

The doctor pulled a business card from a binder sitting on the desk, and handed it to Mom.

"I'd highly recommend visiting Dr. Darien Bastille's practice for psychiatric care. Dr. Bastille is highly experienced in cases like these, especially with adolescents. She will work with you to ensure regular visits are possible."

Mom stuffed the business card into her wallet. "Thank you very so much."

The doctor turned her attention to me. "Heather, I could also recommend you to a number of treatment facilities if you feel that would be a good option for you."

I scoffed. "You mean send me to a crazies asylum? Uh, no thanks. Can't I just see a therapist or something?"

The doctor smiled blankly. I guess she was immune to snarky remarks, too.

"If you think that would be the best option, then sure." She yanked out another card from the binder. "I actually have several to recommend, but for your particular case, I would recommend Dr. Ajeet Sheikh. He works best with teenagers like yourself. I think you will really like him."

I shoved the card into my pocket. "Thanks."

xxxxx

When I left the hospital, I was fully expecting for life to continue as normal. I could go back to hiding behind my depression, and everybody could go back to not caring whatsoever. But to my surprise, Mom had been completely right about that whole everybody-in-town-knows thing. People from all over the area sent mail in, wishing me well and keeping me their prayers.

When I got back into my room, it had been completely decked out in get well attire: balloons, posters, cards, goodie baskets, you name it. Lindsay was sitting on my bed, filing her nails, anxiously awaiting for me to get home.

"What happened here?" I asked. "And what are you doing here? I thought you hated me now."

Lindsay set her nail file down. "They're from some kids at school. You missed yesterday and like everybody made you sooomany things."

I picked up a giant poster-card. "We heart you Heather" was written across in giant pink letters, with a bunch of signatures along the bottom.

"Tommy Branson, Aisha van Straiten, Meghan Black, Chase Feldman…" I started to read off the names before trailing off. "Lindsay, most of these people hate me."

Lindsay shrugged. "Nobody hates somebody that tried to kill themselves. It makes them feel bad. Including me."

I carelessly tossed the card down. "So you only want to be friends again because you feel sorry for me? Gee, thanks a lot!"

Lindsay folded her arms. "That's not fair, Heather! I didn't know you, like, had issues. You never told me anything! All you ever did was treat me meanly." Her voice got quieter. "But I miss you. I have nobody to shop with or tell all my secrets to."

I sat on my bed. I wanted to smile and laugh, but I just…couldn't. Everything felt too heavy.

"Fine. Friends. But I don't need your sympathy. Promise. I'm going to be just fine."

Things were even weirder at school. Suddenly people actually paid attention to me. They would come up to say hi in a fake-sweet tone and ask how I was doing. Some people gave me hugs. Other people offered to help me walk to class. It's like suddenly everybody was obligated to be nice to me; it's like they thought that one mean remark or cold look would suddenly send me over the edge again.

Most people would absolutely love attention like this, but I hated it. Maybe I was depressed, maybe I struggled with many issues in life, maybe I felt lonely. But I was no weakling. I did pretty damn well handling things myself. I didn't want to be seen as some sort of helpless basket-case.

I thought it would wear off after a day or two, as well. But nope. I was suddenly that Weak and Sensitive Girl that needed to be watched, taken care of all the damn time. It became increasingly clear that things could never really be the same again.

After the next week was over, I dug through the pockets of the pants I had been wearing at the hospital ad found the card that doctor gave me. I hesitated for a few seconds, but then quickly dialed the number.

"Dr. Sheik's office, this is Melissa speaking. How may I help you?" a woman's voice answered.

"Uh…hi," I muttered awkwardly. "I would like to schedule an appointment."

xxxxx

It took a couple of weeks of waiting, but I actually braved myself up enough to visit the therapist. I felt like such a basket case, a weakling.

I filled out all the basic paperwork, and before I knew it, I was sitting one-on-one with Dr. Sheikh. He had a nice, genuinely warm smile.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"Heather, could you tell me everything that happened? Let's start there."

I froze. To be honest, I wasn't quite sure what happened.

"Well…" I trailed off. "I, uh, tried to kill myself a few weeks ago."

"And why is that?"

I honestly didn't know what to say. I couldn't exactly pinpoint it.

Wasn't it supposed to be an obvious question?

"Did you feel like you were depressed? Did you feel you had no other options?"

I sighed. "Yeah. Something like that."

"Can you tell me why?"

"I don't know. There are a lot of reasons. I don't think I'm entirely sure. I'm just…I'm unhappy with my life. I have been for a long, long time."

"When do you think it started?"

Oh, God.

"Probably when I was twelve or thirteen. It's been something that I've dealt with for a while now. I think I just got so used to the feelings that I became immune to them worsening."

"Do you think you want to try getting better?"

I paused. This was always a much harder question than it should've been. Finally, I nodded.

"Well, Heather, in order for you to get better, we need to pinpoint exactly what went wrong and try to work through it. Can you try that for me?"

"Right now?"

Dr. Sheikh burst into laughter.

"It could take weeks, months maybe. We're going to dig as deep as we can, or as you'd like. One step at a time."

Dr. Sheikh pulled out a small purple journal and a pen, and slid it across the desk, landing in front of me.

"It's something I want you to think about as much as you can. Write your feelings, your findings, in this journal, and we may discuss them. Every time something bothers you, every time you feel urges, or if you just feel like you need to write something down. Journal keeping is great for managing emotions."

I haphazardly placed the journal into my bag. "Okay. I'll try."

I didn't really plan on using the journal. I didn't want to put my feelings and secrets into writing. Or rather, I didn't think I knew how to.

But as I went home later that night, the urge to write hit me within minutes, mainly after being re-surrounded by the fake-sympathy gifts that were shoved into a corner.

I opened the journal, grabbed the pen, and began scribbling.

Discovery 1: I hate when people pretend that they care when they don't. I wish everybody at school would just leave me alone.

I'm scared to dig deep. I think that's the big issue. I don't want to face my problems head-on, because I don't want to be reminded that I do have problems.

Though how could I really avoid them, anyways?

I guess it's time to dig through old memories.