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The following that I disclose shall be entirely private, and should you judge me based on what I confide, this is the truth behind my character, and not the face I wear for show in public.

I cannot show affection. I am rarely inclined to hug my friends; I will return the hug, but rarely do I initiate. I do not show emotions well -- if anybody thinks otherwise, I believe you are instead familiar with my public persona. Lately, I am beginning to believe that this infliction stems from the people I have been raised by -- namely, my parents.

I have always believed that my parents were an excellent match. My mother is aggressive, opinionated, headstrong, social; my father is quiet, playful, and much less social -- much like myself. If anybody believes in zodiac pairings, they can do no better than to cite my parents. My parents' respective western and chinese zodiac signs are favorably aligned.

However, that being said, I have never once seen any sign of affection between my parents. The only time I ever saw my parents holding hands was when my mother tripped very badly and my father led her to the car because she could barely keep one eye open. In my nearly 18 years of existence, that is the only physical sign of affection I have ever witnessed.

Nevertheless, I decided that physical affection does not guarantee true affection -- affection can be displayed in other, more subtle ways.

However, at this point I am beginning to wonder about the family dynamic I have grown up with. To be fair, I know that my parents care for me. I am not abused; there is no favoritism between my brother and me; my parents have been deeply involved in my extracurricular activities since I was young. Having grown up in only one family, I cannot say what exactly is "normal."

Firstly, my relationship with my father is sorely lacking. There are many days when we exchange barely a word to each other. He comes home very late at night; I leave very early in the morning. I do not confide anything to him. When the acceptances for Duke and Cal came out, Gov. J asked me, "Why don't you call your dad?" I cannot fully explain why I did not call him -- my initial explanation was that it was not worth bothering him at work -- but I am fully certain this was only an excuse for something else I do not fully understand.

Secondly, my relationship with my mother is very volatile. I am very close to my mother. I confide in her about everything except my romantic life. I take her advice most of the time. However, by the same token, I have only discovered the true extent my anger can reach by interacting with her. My peers at school fear her -- one of them even called her "slave driver." Back when that phrase was uttered, I wanted to beat the kid to a pulp. But in my present state, all I have to say is this: none of you have any right to call her a slave driver when you have yet to see what i have seen. All you have seen is barely 20 percent of her full potential.

Yesterday, I played at the branch honors recital for piano. The piece I played, Elegie by Rachmaninoff, is one that is special to me. I connect to the deep sadness in the piece very well. Nevertheless, my stage fright proved to be an obstacle I once again could not overcome. I screwed up in sections where I have never messed up ever before.

Before I divulge my mother's reaction to my failure, allow me to describe the circumstances at hand. Just a week ago, I had my wisdom teeth pulled out. in my pain-ridden, drugged-up state, I was in no condition to practice. The following weekdays, I was plagued by an impending print date for the school newspaper, a terrible Friday in which I had a test/quiz/project in every subject, mental apprehension for the admission decisions from Cal and Duke, and to top it off, a massive headache attributed to Vicodin withdrawal. Needless to say, I practiced very little that week.

On Friday, I returned home from another lengthy day at journalism feeling relieved that I had survived the horrendous Friday and simply wanted to relax. I was, to be honest, in no mood to practice. I ran through the piece about four times before deciding I wanted to watch a movie on television. I will concede that it was an error in judgment on my part. However, I must confess that I felt almost stupidly confident about the piece and had no patience to drill it slowly. My furious mother yelled at me, threatening, "If you're going to have this kind of attitude, you had better not mess up tomorrow!"

Needless to say, I fucked up.

As we went into the parking lot afterward, before she got into her minivan, she yelled at me, "What did I tell you?" We exchanged unpleasant words before she drove off with my brother. I sat inside my Corolla for quite some time, for I was not confident I could drive home with my blurred, teary vision. My teacher discovered me in that state and took me to Baskin Robbins, where we talked. My teacher is very nice and though her words were consoling, I could not be certain if she was genuine. She told me that my mother does not understand how difficult it is to perform for an audience. She told me that even though I hit wrong notes, she enjoyed my performance because i had played the elegie from the heart. When she and Dr. T (a mentor) first picked out the piece for me last year, Dr. T had remarked that I had an unusual talent of being able to express deep sadness, and he asked if I had experienced anything traumatizing in my life. And in response to that, I have not. I do not know why I am so drawn to tragedy and sadness, or why i empathize with sorrow more than any other emotion.

My mother and I imposed the silent treatment on each other for the rest of the day, until this morning when she thundered into my room and started yelling at me about my performance. It was a very nasty fight. It was then that I realized she does not understand me at all. To her, a performance cannot be from the heart if it is riddled with technical errors. She was completely deaf to the musicality and genuine feeling i had poured into the piece. She demanded answers to hundreds of questions. At that point, I was no longer listening. All I could think about was what things I would pack and where I would drive to, because I could not stand being in the same house with this woman any longer.

All I would tell her was that she did not understand me. To her fury, I did not bother trying to explain why. I have long since learned that it is useless to argue with her once she her anger has reached critical mass. When she finally left my room, I shut the door very loudly. The next thing I knew, I heard her elephantine footsteps stomping towards my door like the march of death. She slammed the door open so hard that it knocked the clock from the wall. She screamed at me at probably 90 percent of her full potential and then warned me to never slam the door again. After she had left, I looked at the wall and observed that she had slammed open the door so hard that the doorknob had left a cracked dent in my wall.

Yesterday, my teacher told me I must forgive my mother. My teacher told me that although my mother is very lively socially, she does not appear to express genuine emotions very well. I have understood since a young age that my mother gave up her art -- painting -- to take care of my brother and me. In a way, I know I am responsible for whatever second-thoughts she has about becoming only a homemaker with no time to paint.

Somehow, innately I know she cares about my brother and me. But I don't know how I know. My brother and I are rarely praised in this household. I do not know if it is a cultural difference in parenting, for my parents are both first-generation immigrants to the United States. Many times, I do not feel my parents are particularly proud of me. If they ever talk to me about my grades or extracurriculars, it is because they are scolding me, not because they are praising me. Their reaction to my acceptances to Cal and Duke could not measure to mine at all. My mother's "Congratulations" was over the phone, so I could not gauge her reaction very accurately, but from the impression I gathered when I returned home, it almost felt as if they expected me to get in -- and they were simply waiting for the rest of the Ivy League schools.

Then again, the lack of communication is mutual. I do not hug my parents. I cannot remember the last time I ever said, "I love you" to anybody. I do not know if these are symptoms of nature or nurture, but either way, I am crippled.