Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
Daddy issues are defined by girls who wore makeup in middle school, sparkly grey eyeshadow falling to their cheeks, thick red lipstick peeling and smearing as the day goes on. The girls who let boys like Nick S. kiss them and touch them in the hallways after school, grubby fingers sliding over and inside and everywhere. The girls who pretend to like the attention, who are happy to have middle aged men flirt with them if it means they get a free ice cream cone in the middle of July. The girls who bounce from boy to boy, a new post each week about how much I love Brendon-- I mean Josh, Josh is my soulmate-- I’m so lucky to have met Will, I know we’ve only been dating for a month but, actually, Michael and I are going to be together forever.
Your best friend has daddy issues.
You don’t.
Sure, when you were five years old your dad called to you as soon as you got out of the shower. He told you that the stars looked magical and you had to come outside and see them. You wrapped the faded towel around your shoulders, turning yourself into the superhero he would never be. When you got out on the front steps, water dripping from the split ends of your hair, he yanked the towel off of your shoulders and shut the door, turning on the front porch light. You were outside, naked, in the cold. A five year old. You were worried that the neighbors would see. You started screaming, crying, pounding on the door. You were probably outside for five seconds before your mom brought you back in, but those five seconds were enough for you to hate him.
Your dad never tells you that you’re pretty. He brags about you on FaceBook, about the only daughter who got his green eyes, the daughter who does so well in school. He posts about the time you were invited to have lunch with the principal. Your teachers had nominated you as the best kid in the class, the kid who best represented the seventh grade. The school bought you McDonald’s and you got to sit with the principal and tell him about your classes. But later that year, when you talk about the men you find attractive and the principal’s name slips out of your mouth, your dad tells you that you’re a tramp.
Tramp is slapped across your face, blaring red from your cheek. Everyone knows that you’re a slut. Sure, you’ve never been kissed, but that doesn’t mean you don’t think about it. You see the way men look at your sister. You want that, too.
Don’t you?
Before eighth grade, your mom took you back to school shopping. She tells you that you’re growing up so fast, that your dad is worried about you. The way she says it makes your stomach flip. Sluts aren’t afraid of men, right? They want it, right?
But if you wanted it, why did you cry after Mary forced you to kiss her in the pool that May? Why did you run upstairs and throw on a training bra when your mom’s stepfather arrived? When your dad looked you up and down, eyes trailing on your legs-- the legs of an eleven year old, the legs that filled you with pride when your mom called them skinny-- and he asked if you were seriously going out like that, you felt a rock lodge itself in your throat.
Maybe that’s why you gained all that weight. You thought men would stop looking at you. But there was that time, after, when you were fourteen, waiting for your little sister at the bus stop. That man, old enough to be your grandfather, pulled up next to you on the curb. He leaned out of his window, said that you were so still, so beautiful, he thought you were a statue. His eyes were stuck on your legs, watching the hem of your pink dress sway in the breeze. Summer hadn’t even ended yet, you were still tan. And, God, weren’t you kind of asking for it? You had just started wearing makeup, and you know how short that dress was, above the knee. And you had taken off your sweater, bare shoulders exposed, a bra strap shimmying down your arm. And you liked older men, didn’t you? You wanted the attention.
There were girls in your school whose dads had left. Your best friend’s dad had left. But yours was married, happily, to your mom. So how could you have daddy issues?
Sure, he screamed at you every now and again. He threw a meatball at your face when you were four, knocking you off of your chair from the force. He’s pushed you in an airport before, but that was your fault. You were the one having the panic attack. He told you that you ruined your mom’s birthday, that he was gonna euthanize the dog because of you. When you got a B+ in honors algebra he yelled until you cried, until you had no choice but to run a razor over your wrist, your thighs, carving B+ into your skin. He had a point, you are a stupid bitch. He’s thrown plates past you, letting them break in the sink, because you don’t fucking know how to hold a conversation about your friend who just got into a car accident. He’s brushed past you, acted like you don’t exist, ridiculed you for being afraid of him.
But he’s a good dad, really. He would never leave your mom (except for that one fight they had a few summers ago, where, after twenty years of marriage, he said we should take a break, but it’s not like he meant it). He would never hit you. And so what if he thinks you’re a slut? He’s not far off, is he?
I mean, no, you don’t date boys, but that’s only because you’re far too busy for that. Between school and work, who has the time? And you’ve stopped wearing makeup. Though you should maybe rethink that one, a little bit of concealer would do you some good. You look like you haven’t slept since you were five. If someone touches you, you freeze. You wonder if it’s going to hurt, but you haven’t been hurt before, not like that.
Since you’ve moved to Boston you’ve been afraid every day. You know men look at you. They call out to you, baby girl, the same nickname your parents call you. They ask you to do stuff to them, with them, they tell you that you’re pretty. You don’t believe them.
Or maybe you do. Maybe some sick part of you likes the attention. An older man, lusting after you? I mean, let’s face it, beggars can’t be choosers.
And, so what, you’re a slut. A virgin, sure, but a slut nonetheless.
It’s impossible to recognize your own problems,
even when they slide their hands over your hips and hold on
a little too tight,
wrap their fingers around your throat and
tell you that you like it, tell you that girls with daddy issues are the best
fuck.