Listening and Loving From a Place of Full

by Brenda Fredericks  Aug 1, 2016
woman in cape in front of red volcano synchrodogs

Someone told me last night that his father committed suicide. My father committed suicide fifteen years ago. He swallowed a shitload of pills, including his own Zoloft. I couldn’t talk about it for years without feeling nauseous, disoriented and self-conscious. Cold pangs would run through my heart and I would feel frozen. I remember the first time I tried to be open about it (I used to practice); I told someone my father died from depression. It was as close as I could get and still feel stable on my feet. Barely.

It was a lot of sensation to hold and I didn’t have the capacity to hold it. It showed up as me steering the conversation off topic, telling a half story by leaving out the “he swallowed pills” part, and it felt incomplete and off every time. Or I would run away because I didn’t know what to say. People didn’t ask that many questions; I’m sure they could sense my discomfort. I felt totally blocked. I took on all the shame and stigma our culture has around taking one’s own life. I wanted to be open and comfortable about it, but I didn’t know how. That made me feel even worse; that I was somehow contributing to the shame.

I’ve been practicing Orgasmic Meditation for three years. I have learned to feel and hold sensation more than I ever dreamed possible. I didn’t even know I was missing that. With each OM, each stroke, I have increased my capacity to BE in all kinds of situations. OM has helped me chip off layers of untruths, fears, blocks and hurts. It shows me what IS. Sensation cannot be denied, it is truth, and I have learned to trust my pussy’s wisdom. She tells me a lot, sometimes in a whisper, other times she yells pretty loudly. And she’s even screamed.

What she’s been saying to me the last few years is TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, BRENDA! I was running on empty for years after falling into the typical suburban pitfall of creating my own prison of brick, freshly mowed grass, new cars with a fence wrapped neatly around it all. I took care of everybody else and I was left dry, exhausted and unfulfilled. My marriage ended and I dove into radical ME time. OMing helped me fill up the parts of me that were starving. With each stroke, I felt more like myself. Practice, practice, practice. Keep OMing. Keep going. That’s what my pussy told me. It didn’t always make sense and yet when I followed her wisdom, my life always got better and I felt more connected to myself and others. I learned to trust myself, feel into my desires and take more risks. And life became a lot more fun!

And so there I was, at the table with a friend last night, him telling me his dad committed suicide. Because I feel full, I was able to truly listen to him. Put my love and attention on him, ask questions and hold loving space. I didn’t need to share my story, to assume I needed to make him feel better by saying I experienced that too, or try to save him. I didn’t need to get my story in because I was starving for attention, like in the past. We sat in the sensation of it and I held it in my body. I noticed I felt stable and clear, loving.

I’m able to talk about my dad’s suicide now. Clearly, lovingly and with perspective. I don’t need to fill that deep hunger inside anymore in whatever moments I can steal by making it all about me. This is radically different from the past when I made myself responsible for everyone else, listening and doing beyond my capacity, running myself ragged to the point of empty.

This is listening and loving from a place of full. It’s healing. It’s OM.

(Photo Credit: Synchrodogs)