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The Emma Kate Collection

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Sweet reflections; musings and tumbles

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The Emma Kate Collection

  • HOME
  • About
  • Connect
  • Archive
    • She
    • The Letter
    • The Outsider
    • Death and Picnics
    • Hands
    • The Runaway
    • The Hill
    • Them and Me
    • Push
    • Vanishing Shapes
    • The Swim
    • Sometimes...
    • Cocoon
    • The Sum of My Parts
    • Just a Simple Melody
    • Bloom
    • Ids Narda Toomur
    • Dear Maggie
    • The Passenger
    • Tips of My Toes
    • Secrets
    • The New Kid
    • Code Blue
    • Home Sweet Home
    • The Jacaranda Tree
    • Too Much to Camambert
    • Nanu Nanu
    • Unexpected Love
  • In The Spotlight
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Essays

The Beach Ball.

October 19, 2018 Emma Brooker
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When I was 5, I owned a bright yellow bathing suit; which was just fine and dandy for mucking about in our back yard paddle pool that mum had set up against the back fence every summer, making sure it was not in splash range of her clothes line.

The yellow bathing suit was also a one piece, which meant less burn marks on my tummy as I skidded down the make shift slip-and-slide my older brother had attached to the pool. We actually ended up with a pretty fantastic obstacle course that summer.

We had the trampoline set up on it’s side with a sprinkler splashing against it causing extra thrill seeking risk as we hurled our bodies against it squealing as it was forced back on it’s legs bouncing across the puddles, before hurling ourselves off it on to the slip and slide that ran for about 3 metres before smashing our way into the pool at the end. It was delightful.

Care Free.

Imagine that feeling. Care free in a bright yellow bathing suit.

Nothing felt better than the droplets of water on my hot sun scorched skin, itchy wet grass speckled up my legs and my limbs aching from a day of play. The memory of those days include the memory of the grape vine that ran along our back fence. Full of the sweetest, blackest grapes that we grabbed by the hand full; plunking them into our buckets to gorge ourselves on, before mum could stop us.

I had no opinion on my body parts whatsoever.

I had arms and legs and a belly button that was an inny and not an outy – that’s as far as I went with my critique.

When I was 9 that all changed.

Walking across the playground during school recess with a smile on my face and not a worry in the world. A boy in my class decided I had a different shape and he did not like that – he decided it was his job to tell me, so that I was aware.

Aware from that day forward. For the rest of my life.

You are fat, he told me. A Beach ball.

And so it was.

My inner dialogue confirming it again and again every second of every day.

I was fat.

A beach ball.

The truth of it all, looking back on old school photos, was that I looked no different than any other girl beside me, maybe a slight layer of puppy fat more than the more wiry limbed girls of the bunch , but no, he was so wrong.

I did not stand out with rainbow stripes and an inflating nozzle on my hip.

He made me think I did though.

9.

My body was suddenly a viewed as commodity, the most valuable asset I owned to purchase people’s approval ..and the shape I lived in, was apparently not a high end model.

That same year my 9-year-old body was abused and traumatised by a ‘trusted’ male neighbour.

Again my body was not mine to value, but a mans to use.

My nozzle undone, as I deflated.

I was wearing my yellow bathing suit that day too.

At 16 I was reminded again that my body was an object to be dissected and put to the highest bidder, when my high school crush whispered in my ear so romantically, that he thought I was good looking and that he would date me… if I just lost a few pounds.

16.

My body has been in a discount bin, in my eyes.. pretty much ever since.

Sometimes over the years I have tried shutting out the views of men - their white noise from their gold plated patriarchal thrones, and actually feel good about the way I look.

I remember a summer in particular, 2001.

I was 22 and loved every part of my body from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.

It was a time in my life when I was my healthiest. My body was it’s strongest.

I was glowing.

A moment in time when I wore a bright yellow bikini over sun kissed skin and I spent a whole summer riding my bike, exploring the new suburb by the sea I found myself living in.

My friends and I walked to the beach more days than not. Swimming and tanning ourselves until the sun dipped below the hazy horizon and we waded through the cool high tide to make it home again.

Frangipani trees and jasmine filled the air and somehow so did the comments and cat calls.

My positive sunny outlook and view of myself soon got caught up in the attention my body now received from men. Changing the commentary from the highschool taunts of fat ..to ‘hot’ and ‘curvy’ and very much wanted in their beds to pleasure them.

Now when I walked past a man he noticed me, it felt powerful and freeing and I stupidly got drunk on the high it falsely gave me.

Until I was 23 and I was pinned to my bed and forced to say yes with the final relax of my arms, after 14 no’s.

How foolish I was to think I owned this power. This body. This good feeling inside.

It was never about my own self worth, my own sexual pleasures and desires, as I foolishly convinced myself at the time it was.

It was all man made.

A slip-and-slide my body is forced to shoot down as opinions and hands grab at me, while I close my eyes and squeal.

My name is German in origin, and means Universal, and strength. Of the earth.

If only I had of lived up to my name and demanded the respect I deserved. Making my own identity with no influence from men.

If only they hadn’t trained me so subtly; without even they realizing it most of the time, let alone me; like a performing seal, to apologise whenever I spoke up, to always come along with a joke to compensate for my discount-bin body, or to slump my shoulders and hide in the shadows when intimidated. Making myself as small as I could, to not dare cause anyone to notice my flaws.

And then I went and did the worst thing possible.

I dared to actually get fat.

So now the mirror taunts me every day too. Because I was taught at 9 that being fat was wrong, and bad and not OK.

I know now, looking back, food was a way I dealt with any kind of pain and trauma in my life, which was exacerbated by an underlining chronic condition making it harder for me to lose weight once I gained it.

So now here I am.

40.

Now my body shape gets completely ignored. Wishing for it for so long.. and now it has happened, it is awful.

I am that dark smudge that passes men by - I’m in their blind spot as they scan the room for thinner, younger girls.

Beauty fading fast. So now what?

Men still telling me by the way I am ignored, that my body is not OK.

Men still showing women what they should be, in the constant stream of images flung in front of our faces like some kind of obstacle course you try to navigate and make your way out of, self worth in tact.

Because you cannot be anything but thin and youthful in this world.

Women buy into this now too, reinforcing it all and making it casual.

According to instagram I must have a tiny waist, a decent set of tits, slim toned legs, and a peach shaped butt.

When you are that you get fire emojis.

Fire emojis is the payment now for young girls.

That’s the correct way for a woman to exist in the world.

I get that memo every second of every day.

And so do 9-year-olds, and 16-year-olds and 23-year-olds.

It’s exhausting.

Exhausting to have my looks be the rent I pay to exist in the world.

Exhausting to have to have anxiety to put on a pair of black (slimming of course) swimmers, to head into the water now and enjoy just a moment.

Too scared to get out and walk to my towel if there are too many people around to judge my lumps and bumps…or even worse perhaps, not notice I am even there.

Exhausting to continually listen to the opinions of men when it comes to my body, and not my own.

Not wanting to ever be noticed, while silently wanting to, so much.

I need more. It all has to mean more.

I am done apologising for what I look like and the space I take up.

I am done putting men before my own self.  

I bought a new pair of swimmers last week. They aren’t yellow, but they are bright and draw attention, their bright stripes kind of remind me of a beach ball.

And I have decided that is OK.

If anyone dares to make the mistake of thinking my body is anything but mine and mine alone to judge, I always have a big dose of double birds to flip their way as I hit the water.

40, 23, 16 or 9.

That’s how it should be.

Em xoxo

Comment

All The Colours.

March 19, 2018 Emma Brooker
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I spent a lot of my time on my own as a kid so afternoons on my bike, were important to my little head.

Once my sisters had left home, it was my bike and my daydreaming that kept me busy.

Riding bravely, past the line of old green gums on the outskirts of town. Pretending I was on my way to some far off place like Dorothy and Oz.

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Back (to the Start).

February 27, 2018 Emma Brooker
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So here I am, on a Friday night and it has been a long week at work.
I am sitting on a squeaky stool in a stale bar, contemplating a hole I have snagged in my new black tights, while I subconsciously nod my head in time with the music warbling over the speakers. I feel momentarily, young and free and filled with hope. 

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Shells.

November 30, 2017 Emma Brooker
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Coming from a dusty, flat country town to the beach, meant that everything as we arrived was shiny and intoxicating.

It felt like a different planet.

All of it a hazy, heated mosaic before me.

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Holes

June 9, 2017 Emma Brooker
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Wonder woman is in cinemas this week.

If only everyone knew I was really Wonder Woman.

I may not look it on the outside, but inside I have grown tall and tough. Powerful.

I can quickly deflect bullets, lasers, and other projectiles with my impenetrable bracelets.

Sure, I still have my weaknesses, holes that sometimes leak.

I poke my fingers at the holes in my sides though, as best I can. 

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Binary

May 12, 2017 Emma Brooker

1 or zero.

On or Off.

Yes or no.

A muddling mess of dichotomy I seem to have found myself in.

I look around though and see I am not the only one, I’m in good company.

Smiling above the surface while underneath legs burn from treading heavy water.
 

Sneaky filters hiding it all.

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One Perfect Day

April 19, 2017 Emma Brooker

Sometimes, all you can do is run.

You have to.

The trick is, to realise that it is not so much from things but towards ..other things.

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The Great Escape

March 31, 2017 Emma Brooker
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I have never been one to free fall into addiction.

The hook always skimmed close to my head, but it never

latched.

So many times, when I was battered and weak.

You would think it would be so easy for me to then reach over an uncrossed line for a bottle or pill.

I have known others who had. I always viewed it as such a sad weakness, a flaw. If only I k

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Particles

March 18, 2017 Emma Brooker
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None of it Matters.

The plastic, the gadgets, the high glossed magazines; the heels with the right brand name, faded out on the soles, from all the running you do to keep in front.

Things obtained to make life easier, dull a pain, stroke an ego.. to make you feel like you mean something while you hurl yourself forward trying, always trying, and all for what..to keep up with Joneses down the road?

It just doesn’t matter.

I think everyone knows that deep down.

I always have. I still want it though. It is in us all, I suppose. A consumer particle added; an evolutionary shift.

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Tags mother; father; reflection; childhood; family; home; grief; memories
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Marriage and Hot Sexy Stuff.

March 1, 2017 Emma Brooker

"Please Will," she begged, kissing me again, reaching for my other hand and trying to pull it around her. "I want to be with you so much it's making it hard to breathe".

"It wasn't just a physical attraction between us. It was something more with Hanna, some chemisty in our blood, something between us that snapped and crackled, that made me always want just a little more than I could take. She offered friendship, I wanted her body, She offered her body, I wanted to hijack her thoughts. She offered her thoughts, I wanted her heart".

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Older Posts →
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Hola! I am a blogger/ professional writer wanna be, based in Newcastle NSW. A complete  country girl at heart I moved here 22 years ago and got the best of everything - a bigger city that is surrounded by country and vineyards and my very favourite thing life has to offer, the ocean! Swimming is probably my second favorite activity other than writing ...no wait, I forgot eating..oh and shit, sex of course I should probably say that too.... anyway you get the idea. 
I also am pretty lucky to have my husband Luke by my side and our little grey ball of snuggles Molly the Cat.


I really wish I could say I was into more exciting things...like stand up paddle boarding and mountain bike riding, but really right now I am focused on not wearing my favourite yoga pants 3 days in a row and getting through the exciting times of IVF cycles. Oh and I am newly obsessed with The Bachelor franchise (I heart Ashley.I. always), fruit tingles and bubble baths. I also tend to trip over...a lot.  
That's me in a nut shell - if you want the whole bag o' nuts though feel free to read on and learn more.

Emma has created a unique space where she blogs about her childhood memories and how they connect to her life and relationships now. Not really a memoir blog, but not really any other kind other - it very much matches her - a one of a kind!
Her original crack at blogging and getting her work out there into the world was a great success, with her first blog 'Till She Sings' gaining a readership of over 10,000.
The Emma Kate Collection explores Emma's life past and present, with a unique and creative perspective. Her emotive and raw essays compels her readers to look beyond the more traditional female blogs, connecting them with an intimate view point, with a creative edge. Emma explores themes that resonate with her female readership; infertility, IVF, body image, grief and loss.
A selection of her work can be found on the following online publications;
- Australia's largest female independant website,  http://www.mamamia.com.au/grief-of-miscarriage/
- Online feminist independant magazine, http://lipmag.com/author/emma-brooker/

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