Hello. My Name is John and I suffer from social anxiety. (in unison)--Hi, John.

World Beer Tour Night At Old Chicago (2 of 3)

Hi. My name is John and I have social anxiety. (-in unison, "Hi John.")

I self-medicate with beer here at 'Old Chicago' in Coralville, Iowa.

This is my sister. She used to be on Alprazolam. Now she's an Army Wife. She likes to drink too.

I like to stare at the bottom of my beer for hidden messages when I'm nervous. This one looks like a yin-yang symbol, or the face of God, or something. It makes me feel better to look at an empty glass knowing a full one is on it's way from our server. She's nice. She doesn't judge me like the others.

This is what I look at after I've self-medicated. I really don't know who the hell this guy is. He bothers me.

My mom always told me when I was young, if you looked upon the face of God, you would die--you’d disintegrate, and become nothing. “Humans are mortal and have far too many flaws to view the perfect face of the Almighty,” she would tell me. If you died and went to heaven and you wanted to see Jesus, that was okay because Jesus was a mortal man—the Holy Spirit inside the body of Christ here on earth. But if you asked to see God, you would be sternly warned that doing so was suicide, even in Heaven. My mom told me that if you entered the room, or whatever space it is that God occupies, and you look directly at God you will go blind, much like she warned me about staring at the sun. But it didn’t stop there. Not only would you go blind, but if your mind tried to comprehend the complexity of perfection that is Our Lord, your head would explode into a thousand million little pieces; you would cease to exist. My mom told me this when I was ten. I’m not kidding. [ed.-That much pressure put upon a ten year old who desperately wanted to see the face of God, and please his parents, naturally led to indigestion and panic attacks.]

Around the same age, whenever I felt sick, my family would gather around me, and led by my father, would put their hands on my stomach and pray so that the spirit of the Holy Ghost might enter me and make me better. “Oh, Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name” my father would say, waving his hand above my abdomen, “Jesus, please make my son, Jonathan…Jesus please make my son better. In the name of the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost, amen.” I remember my face would flush, and a cold sweat would break out on my forehead. Usually, I was only suffering from mild indigestion, but when I felt those hands upon me, I believed I was possessed by the Holy Spirit. I would experience a mix of hot flashes and chills accompanied by a cool sweat on my blushing forehead. What else could explain this miraculous feeling other than being possessed by the Holy Spirit?

Until recently, I suffered from indigestion and anxiety. So much pressure put upon a ten year old who desperately wanted to see the face of God, and please his parents, naturally led to indigestion and panic attacks later on in life. Now I learned to self-medicate with things such as alcohol (see my previous post for an example) when things get too real for me and I started to feel anxious. If someone looked at my face too long as I handed them their change at the gas station job, I would drink at home that night and wonder what this stranger who had made eye contact with me knew—what deep and dark secrets he could tell just by looking through my eyes, into my window into the skeletons in the closet of my soul. I was an anxious, nervous mess. Each accidental brush of contact with a customer flushed my face, and reminded me of being possessed by the Holy Spirit when I was a sick ten-year old.

My sister, Holly, suffers from panic attacks and is on, or used to be on Alprazolam, I can't remember. She keeps telling me that the Community Mental Health Center here in Iowa City doesn’t charge for service--they go on a donation basis where you give them as much or as little as you think you can afford. I tell her a case of beer is what I can afford this week. It’s my Alprazolam, but you don’t need a prescription from a therapist. Holly’s husband’s brother, Harry, used to be addicted to Alprazolam, but now he quit cold turkey and goes to Old Chicago every night after a hard day of working construction to drink. “After all, I’ve earned it,” Harry, my Dad, and I say. "And it’s better than therapy. Cheaper, too," we tell ourselves. “Therapist—more like ‘the-rapist,’” Chet, Holly's husband, says when he drives Holly to the Mental Health Center once a month. I just walk to the gas station once a week to get my beer and try not to make eye contact with the cashier.

I can remember the last time I’ve had a near-panic attack. About a month ago, I was in the sold-out Paramount theatre in Cedar Rapids watching Jim Gaffigan perform. I looked around me, and while trying to take in how many people were in this theatre and how much air was left, I felt the cool touch of the woman’s shoe next to me on my calf. I felt like I felt when I was a kid: the whole flushing of the skin, heart palpitations, everything. But when I looked upon the bright, pale forehead of Jim Gaffigan, and he told his Jesus, Mary, and Joseph joke I knew I was going to be okay. I had a few beers in me. It was okay to stare at the sun, to look in the face of God, to laugh in the pale face of Jim Gaffigan while drunk. It didn’t always lead to a panic attack that I misconstrued as a child into thinking I was possessed by the Holy Spirit. It's ok to laugh and have fun in public. I learned, ultimately laughter really is the best medicine for panic. And the best part is, God has a sense of humor too.

I need to be like Jim Gaffigan and get up on stage and bare the secret skeletons in my closet. I need to get out of my shell. I need to get drunk and be funny for all to see. It’s my time. My time to share my unique vision with future generations--time to give back to the world I have so selfishly stolen from up until now, at the ripe mature age of twenty-seven. I need to get up on stage and tell my story. I just have to remember when all those eyes are upon me and I feel the cool sweat start to form on my forehead, it’s just the Holy Spirit reminding me that everything is going to be ok, stupid. There's always a beer on the stool next to me.


--John Nauman was raised Methodist by his parents: Bob a construction worker and former Catholic, and Carol a bank worker and former home-maker to six children, both former Christian hippies. He became best friends with Moe, a Muslim classmate from Lebanon, and almost converted to Islam in high school. Now, at age twenty-seven, he believes no one answer is ever the answer for anyone, and that all religions are essentially equal. He is a skeptic who believes in God. A walking contradiction. Kick him in the nuts if you ever see him. God, he pisses me off. I really hate that arrogant fatass, I do.


Peace.

[edit--Happy 53rd B-Day Mom! I can never remember if your birthday is today or tomorrow, but I'll say it now anyway. This blog is for you. May we follow our dreams, maybe not in our lifetimes, but in our successors'.]