OM Gave Me a Place to Grieve

BY CELIA SCHAUBLE

In my early twenties, I married a man who checked all the boxes that my mother and grandmother thought were necessary. That is, all of the boxes except for love. Together, my now ex-husband (or wasband, as I call him) and I created a beautiful and abundant life together, but we struggled to be happy together. 

Twenty years and two children into my marriage, my sister died from a heroin overdose. It broke my heart, my life, and my family, into a million pieces. The grief was so great, that it took me all the way down into the basement of my soul. I literally thought I was dying from sorrow. 

The beauty of being that broken cleared a path of authenticity for me. My wasband and I agreed to uncouple, and we went about the process of our divorce in a loving and kind way.

In the space of that transition, a friend told me about Orgasmic Meditation. I was shut down and wasn’t ready for it, but my friend and I stayed in touch. Then one random Wednesday, I saw a picture of him on Facebook that said a thousand words: he had softened in the most subtle, loveliest way possible. When I called him to express how impacted I was by this, he confirmed that it was because of the practice of OM, and he told me how much he believed in it for healing. This time, I was ready. I flew from Arizona to San Diego so that I could attend an introductory class.

The day of the class, I was feeling nervous as I arrived. But when I got out of the car, I saw many signs from the universe that confirmed I was in the right place, not the least of which is that the venue was on Jewel Street. My late sister’s middle name was Jewel. I felt her presence, and it put me at ease.

Once I was trained, I started to practice. At first, all of my OMs had a heaviness to them. It felt like I was being suctioned down into the earth, some force stronger than gravity pulling me down. My body felt tight from my neck and chest down to my toes, and I held on to that tightness as long as I could, until, at a certain point during every OM, the heaviness crashed, and I’d break into a million pieces of grief again. I was grieving more than the death of my sister—I was grieving the fact that I had married my shame, which was rooted in my lack of integrity with myself. In those OMs, I could allow the shame to just be, instead of keeping it buried. There was no other place where my grief, shame, and pain had permission to simply exist. It felt like I was giving myself a gift.

There was one OM that had a huge impact on me. In the OM, I felt the stroker’s thumb penetrate into my introitus, which was a break in the container. Instead of speaking up in that moment, I froze and became rigid. I didn’t know how to approach it. When the OM was complete and we finished our frames, I felt dirty for not speaking up, and I was angry at myself for not making the adjustment. 

When I got home, the friend who introduced me to OM called. I shared with him what happened and how I felt. He asked me why I hadn’t felt as though I could make the adjustment, and it dawned on me. I was taken all the way back to when I was seven years old. That was when I had first been sexually violated. At seven, I hadn’t found the words to speak up. Now, I still hadn’t been able to speak up. This was an opportunity; I could see it. So I called the stroker, and I asked if we could talk about it. I decided to be vulnerable and tell him how I felt. He apologized. I got to use my voice and ask for the thing I needed. More than that, I came to see that it had always been more about me acknowledging and holding my own boundaries than anything he (or anyone) was doing at any given moment. 

After that experience, my OMs were no longer laden with that heavy, sucked-to-the-center-of-the-earth sensation. I understood the impact of not giving an adjustment when I felt I needed to. I melted in my OMs, and became the more fully expressed, authentic woman I am today.