My friend Bailey is looking at me with tears in her eyes and a smile of pure joy. She sees me, the real me, not the broken little bird that my mother sees, or the Ambassador of Hope that my father sees, or the girl who was stupid enough to walk off with a stranger and ruin everyone's lives that my sister sees. Bailey sees me as I want to be: a normal, non-newsworthy, non-broken, non-victimized sixteen-year-old girl.

It was a dark story.

We must clean our national psyche from all manifestation of evil, be it kidnapping, militancy, insurgency, murders or assassinations.

Consider bonsaiThere but for constricting bowlWould be a giant.

Hope is made of air, and wishes. An empty box wrapped in shiny paper.

This just didn’t happen to girls like me. This just didn’t happen to anyone.

What will your family think, me showing up on their doorstep with my suitcase in hand?'I'll carry your suitcase,' he said.

My Keeper took everything from me: my home, my family, my voice. He made me powerless. But I'm home now. It may be split in two, but I have it back. My family may be broken, but I have it back. I have my voice back. I am not powerless anymore.

That day wasn't the first time I had attempted suicide. Simply disappearing into the distant nothingness where there was no pain and no more feelings - back then I thought it an act of empowerment. Otherwise I had very little power to make any decisions about my life, my body, my actions. Taking my own life seemed my last trump card.

Dad thinks I'm ready to fly around the country as the Ambassador of Hope, but Mom thinks I'm a frail little bird with broken wings.