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Sunday, Dec. 21, 2003 - 2:57 a.m. BROTHERLY TALK The mountains gained height and my car began to shift gears with every incline of the interstate. My ears felt the slow pressure of the altitude as the engine began to groan. On the side of the roads and adorning the mountains was a white substance I have not seen in five years. In fact, the sight had become so unfamiliar, my mind was more likely to believe I was passing near sand dunes along a beach highway in Florida. In reality, I was meandering through the Appalachians. Along with me was my easy-to-confide-in brother who had just began his break from law school. On and off we would discuss various subjects, in the beginning predominated by a discussion of his difficulties in law school and the various women he had been dating. The discussion then shifted to the slight depression I was feeling and my inability to consciously control the rise and fall of my moods. The overcast sky throughout much of the earlier trip did not help matters. I began to recognize the pain of a vice-grip that held the emotional juices of my brain ransom very similar to that feeling I once experience before I was originally treated. However, it was not intolerably painful, for my medication was clearly weakening its affect. Unfortunately for my brother, he had to put up with someone often viewing the negative side of things and one that did not have the joie de vie that could be expected on his long-awaited vacation. Nevertheless we traveled on. Before we hit the mountains of the Carolinas, we spent two nights in Atlanta with my youngest brother. It was clear during the time that my brothers spent with me that they saw my fallen mood and found it difficult to communicate with me. Through this difficulty, I began to see first hand how my moods had been controlling my ability to interact with others. In particular, my mood had so warped my perception of reality, I began to question if I had any talent to communicate in the first place. I simply did not have it in me. However, I knew that this detached behavior did not represent who I truly am, as I knew that I have not always been this way. My day in Atlanta was productive. We learned first hand of the Saddam capture as we toured CNN. After much conflict, I convinced my brothers to go to church with me even though my heart is not in my religion. Later that night we visited my youngest brother’s place of work and viewed the different animation clips he was working on for Cartoon Network. We then visited a few bars in walking distance from his downtown apartment. The next day my brother and I ventured out to Asheville to see the Biltmore Estate and winery. During our drive, we discussed the variety of issues affecting my hardly-existent social life and his advice to overcome them. After getting lost, we found the Biltmore Estate and toured the mansion. Afterward, I was able to exercise my limited expertise in wine-tasting as we sampled wines for my brother to buy at the Biltmore Estates winery. After Asheville, we trudged past the Appalachians to arrive in Washington, D.C. We were welcomed by my cousin and an old friend of his visiting from Texas. Apparently, his old friend and he had this tradition of going to a strip joint every time they saw each other. As a result, we were basically suckered into going the second we walked into my cousin’s door. I do not know what to make of women who strip. Yes, I understand that there is a certain amount of entertainment that men glean from it and that it is an easy source of income for certain attractive women. However, I wonder about how demeaned these women must feel when men wave money at them. Some of these strippers seem so natural about it, so seductive toward their customers; it would appear as though they enjoy their trade. Yet when one came to customarily shake our hands, I could not help but feel an invisible hatred brewing within her for our having imbibed her humiliating display. In any case, none of us were really into what was shown before us. We were basically drinking beer and catching up with each other’s lives. The next day, our cousin, who claims to be between jobs, brought us to the Supreme Court and Smithsonian. The following day, my brother and I hiked throughout the city in sleet and snow as we toured the Capitol Building, Post Office museum, and Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. While we walked through Union Station that second day in D.C., my depression was heightened by not only the weather, but also by the hundreds of black coats I saw walking the corridors. In the background I could hear carolers singing the familiar Christmas songs that pinched memories in my mind of many dark, lonely Christmases I had experienced throughout my life. It became obvious to me why this season has the highest suicide rate during the year. After D.C., my brother and I visited Colonial Williamsburg. During our tour, we saw performances of actors who portrayed important figures in American history, namely Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson, which in my opinion were the high points of our trip. In both presentations, men dressed as these two figures gave speeches as though they were the actual men during their time, and fielded questions accordingly. Interestingly, one of the questions toward Patrick Henry was what his opinion was of Thomas Jefferson, toward which he spoke unfavorably. Later on, when Thomas Jefferson sat down to talk to everyone, my brother asked his opinion of Patrick Henry. Thomas Jefferson was so realistic in his presentation, he acted as though Patrick Henry personally offended him. On top of his acting skill, the amount of knowledge the actor had about Thomas Jefferson was extraordinary. Nothing could trip him up. Inspired by the impressive Jefferson impersonation, my brother and I drove to Monticello to see the rear side of the nickel in real life. There we took in the snowy landscape of Virginia surrounding Jefferson’s estate. Realizing how wealthy he was, my brother mocked how the multi-talented Jefferson simply saw himself as a farmer when slaves did all his work. Exhausted from our trip, my brother and I drove partly through a mountain blizzard, arrived in Atlanta and spent the night again at my youngest brother’s apartment. Today we drove in to Tallahassee where I am now composing this entry. During our ride back, and throughout our trip, my brother and I had many insightful conversations regarding my current state in life. One interesting issue that arose concerned my writing of this diary. At one point, when I had been checking my e-mail in Atlanta, my brother saw that I was receiving e-mail from people he had never heard of. I scolded him for looking over my shoulder, but he insisted that I tell him more about it. Later on during our ride back, because I had already described to him the many aspects of my life presented in this diary, I eventually explained to him that I kept an online diary. I then told him that people read my diary and correspond with me concerning it on a regular basis. Full-knowing that there was nothing in “The Experiment” that he did not know already, he agreed not to read it. He then prodded me about the fact that people reading “The Experiment” may want to meet me, or better yet, that those diaries I am reading belong to people I might want to meet. This was an intriguing issue to me, especially when I have gained a great deal of interest in the people I have been reading about. With the certain risks involved with revealing all the personal issues presented in this diary, I have wondered about the value of sacrificing my anonymity in order to meet people, especially when my job could be threatened by this diary. Furthermore, revealing my identity would force me to censor my writing to a much larger degree or even lock my diary. When we arrived in Tallahassee, my brother and I ate at a bar he frequents while he spoke to all the college-aged bartenders he had gotten to know from being such a “regular.” I could not help but be impressed by how easily he was able to socialize with the people there. It was fully consistent with social ability that he has developed through years of practice dating dozens of women and marrying and divorcing one--a level of social ability that I feel overwhelmingly far from achieving. After that experience, I feel hundreds of years behind him. Tomorrow I head back to Baton Rouge to attempt to enjoy the remainder of my break from work. Maybe my depression will subside and I will be able to enjoy it. |