In 1992, a baby was born with fetal alcohol syndrome, gray as the tile of the hospital floor. In 2011, that baby, then a teenager, graduated from The

Bishop’s school in La Jolla, California, and went on to attend Pitzer College in Claremont, California, where she studies English and Spanish and wants

to become a writer.

That baby was me, before I was adopted, and today, I am closer than ever to reaching my dream. I’m a natural Californian -- blonde-haired, blue-eyed,

and free spirited. Energy is my God. My friends are my family.

I was never meant to succeed, never meant to go on to play college soccer, or lacrosse. But I don’t believe in “meant to”. I control my own destiny. From

a very young age, I began to realize the challenges I would face. Anger. Aggression. Bipolar Disorder. Cutting. Bulimia. Loss. Love. But as my mom

always told me, I was born a fighter, and a fighter I will be.

Today, I am in active recovery, ready to take on the world a little bit at a time. And when someone throws “can’t” in my face, I’ll look them in the

eyes and smile, because there is no “can’t”. Only can. And did. Today, at twenty years old, I am a published author. Today, I am on the road to success.

Today, I am alive.

Dana Allison Christensen

They called it a 5150- DTS. Danger to self. Was I a danger to myself?

It’s hard to say. How many stitches does it take to qualify as a 5150?

The EMTs joked about house fires, about car accidents, about death. As the

ambulance rolled on, I couldn’t help but wonder how many body bags these

guys had handled in their lives. I guess when you work as an EMT, death

isn’t about the person as a whole. It’s a slowing heartbeat, a punctured lung,

a number. What number was I? A dim light glared at me through the back

me, casually scribbling notes in his binder. My arm throbbed painfully

through the haphazardly wrapped bandages, but I was too caught up in the

commotion to notice. Sirens. Important-sounding announcements over walkie

talkies. Lights. Lots and lots of lights. As they wheeled me into the ER on

my stretcher (unnecessary, if you ask me), I let my mind wander back to just

a few hours before on that cool October afternoon, as I sat in the Greek theater,

a razor blade poised precariously above my wrist.

though I tried to steady it, the razor dropped from my fingers and fell to the

cool cement below.

“Damn it. Damn it!” I lit a cigarette and threw the lighter down in frustration.

I wanted this. I really did.

I checked my phone again- still no response from Rachel. And Camille

wasn’t answering her phone, not that I really expected her to. I should have

known. Closing my eyes, I picked up the razor from the ground, examining

its edges as I put out my cigarette on the concrete. Amazing how such a tiny

little instrument could do so much damage. The damn thing wouldn’t break

apart for the longest time. I tried a pencil, a pen; I cut half of my fingernail

off in the process. Whoever knew that killing yourself would be so hard?

Okay. I wasn’t trying to die. Not really. I’d tried to tell the psychologist

that, but it was no use. Three near-fatal slices on my forearm weren’t exactly

helping my case. Still, I told her it was a kind of passive ambivalence towards

life. A nonchalance, if you will. She didn’t buy it. Not for a second. I just

wanted help, back then. Little did I know, the minute I walked into that room,

my freedom dissipated with the last wisps of the smoke off my cigarette.

I stared at my arm, willing myself to touch the razor to it, push down,

draw blood. How deep could I go? How deep would I go? I closed my eyes,

dragging the little razor towards me through the flesh. Whoa. Never gone

that deep before. What would happen? I watched intently as the skin parted

into an oval, the white fat gleaming against the silver blade. Then, drop by

drop, the blood came, filling the ravine I’d created in my arm. Instead of immediately

covering it, as usual, I just let it fill, eventually overflowing and

running down my arm. Curiously, only a few drops hit the ground. The rest

coagulated on the spot, thickening into a paste-like substance before drying

crossed my mind briefly, but I quickly pushed it away. I checked my phone

down on the ground, slightly dizzy, and for the first time in my life, I felt like

I was going to die. And I didn’t care.

Want to know why

penguins can’t fly?

I’ll tell you.

The sky is blue, pink, orange,

Black.

We’re nothing but smoky lungs tied to this train track life

kissed me on the forehead

and left me to dry.

I’m hanging silver on your eyelashes;

to crash is to drop beneath the floor,

stop before the river bank’s dust.

I wake to red-rusted nightmares

your fears echoing against my scarred skin

screaming let me in let me begin to

understand why

penguins can’t fly.

I’ll tell you.

Her true face is melting.

This place is nothing

Special.

They told me I was

Special.

But the sky is black

deep river rafting through the stars

prison bars don’t bend in this light.

Fight for summer, fight for another

flightless bird,

‘cause I’ve heard symphonies

in your footsteps.

If only regrets could evaporate

like leftover snow.

I can’t let you go.

Can’t let you know

why I’ll never touch eggnog again

but this pen

won’t stop perverting the page.

I was once an actress performing on stage

now I’ve been cut from the cast.

Her past

is my future.

Suture my wounds with licorice ropes

sweet hopes of surviving dashed as the train crashed into

my sunset.

I’ll bet you don’t know why

penguins can’t fly.

I’ll tell you.

She sniffed rubber glue

at a middle school dance.

I used to think I had a chance

at resurrection

but on closer inspection I found myself grounded

to yesterday.

I say hey with closed lips hoping her hips never open their dirty mouth again.

Singin’ south of the border

there’s a little girl who knows exactly why

penguins can’t fly.

I’ll tell you.

See through my mannequin smile

begin to question the five o’clock shadow

growing darker as the wind blows

my ashes through the trees

beggin’ please, please light me, ignite me,

I want to derail

your assumptions.

And those little girl’s eyes are forked junctions

which path will you choose?

Now there’s nothing to lose

but Everything.

Want to know why

penguins can’t fly?

I’ll tell you.

One too many bottles of wine on the table

yeah I’ve heard empty cradles spew from your mouth

like vomit.

If I could I’d grab hold of Halley’s Comet

just to fly for a night.

But penguins are flightless birds,

and your words

can’t help me fly.

Want to know why

penguins can’t fly?

I’ve told you.