The Gremlin Years
Let me be really clear about something before we begin: before the age of 25, I was not a nice person. I wasn’t misunderstood. I wasn’t quirky or edgy or emotionally complex. I was angry. I was aggressive. I bit people. Not metaphorically. Literally. I bit them. I once punched a girl in the face when I was eleven because she wouldn’t let me into the classroom I wanted to be in. It wasn’t brave. It wasn’t bold. It was just deeply chaotic energy.
When I finally figured out that biting and punching people was going to eventually land me in court, I switched tactics. Emotional damage became my preferred method. It took more creativity, more subtlety, and it left fewer physical marks. I wasn’t the villain in a teen movie, I was the gremlin in the dungeon who took joy in saying the exact thing that would ruin your day and then walking off with a smirk. It felt powerful. It felt like control. But really, it was me being a deeply unhealed brat with a side of unresolved trauma.
It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with Tourette’s at 24 that I had my first real moment of clarity. Suddenly, there was a reason for (some of) the chaos. A reason for the rage. And a deep, gut-wrenching sense of shame that came with it. All those people I hurt? They didn’t deserve it. Not even the mean ones. Not even the ex who cheated on me with someone who looked like a budget Avril Lavigne. I was broken, and I didn’t know better. But now I did. And that meant I had to do something about it.
The Haunting of Bad Decisions Past
One of the worst parts of growth is that you get to a place where you can see the damage you caused. You can’t unsee it. You can’t laugh it off or bury it under another pile of tequila shots and questionable one-night stands. You remember the faces. The moments. The sting in their eyes after something cruel slipped out of your mouth and you pretended it was a joke. The birthday party you ruined. The relationship you sabotaged. The silence that followed your exit because no one knew what to say.
Sometimes the shame sneaks up on me while I’m doing something completely ordinary, like washing the dishes or brushing my teeth. I’ll suddenly remember that time I made someone cry in Year 11 because I told her she dressed like a toddler in a charity bin clearance sale. I meant it to be funny. It wasn’t. I was sixteen and mean. And every so often, my brain will serve that moment up on a silver platter, like, “Here’s your 3am anxiety snack. Enjoy.”
I wish I could tell you that once you start healing, the guilt goes away. It doesn’t. But what does happen is that you learn to carry it differently. Like an awkward handbag you can’t put down, so you learn how to style it with the rest of your outfit. It becomes part of your story. Not the headline, but a footnote. Something you acknowledge, but don’t let define you. Growth doesn’t erase your past, but it does rewrite the way you hold it.
Apologies You’ll Never Get to Say
I’ve apologised to some of the people I hurt. Not all of them. Not even most. Some are gone. Some I can’t even find. Life happens, people scatter, names get changed, and you’re left with ghosts of interactions that never got closure. It sucks. You start crafting apologies in your head like little monologues you’ll never get to perform. “I was awful to you. I know that now. You didn’t deserve it.”
There are days I wish I could go back in time, grab my younger self by the shoulders, and scream, “Get a therapist and stop setting things on fire, metaphorically or otherwise!” But she wouldn’t have listened. She would’ve rolled her eyes and told me I was boring. She thought her pain was unique and glamorous. What she didn’t realise was it just untreated trauma and some really bad coping mechanisms dressed up in fishnets and sarcasm.
So instead of rewriting the past, I try to honour the people I hurt by being someone better now. I try not to be reactive. I pause before I speak, I check in, I take responsibility. And I sit with discomfort. And when those ghosts visit, I let them. I say, “Yeah. That happened. I’m sorry.” Even if no one else hears it, I do. And sometimes, that has to be enough.
The Weight of Knowing Better
One of the wildest things about getting older and doing the work is that you start to realise just how little you knew. The world isn’t black and white. People aren’t just good or bad. And that includes you. Especially you. When I look back, I don’t just see a villain. I see a scared, angry girl who didn’t know how to ask for help. Who thought survival looked like domination. Who wore cruelty like armour.
Learning better didn’t make me a saint. It made me softer. Slower to judge. Quicker to forgive. Not because people always deserve it, but because I remember what it was like to be the one flailing in the dark, hoping no one noticed how lost I really was. There’s a humility that comes with knowing just how badly you can screw up a life – your own or someone else’s – and still find a way forward.
I don’t want to forget who I was. As messy and mean as she could be, she fought to become me. She did the best she could with what she had. And when she finally got the tools, she didn’t waste time. She got to work. That matters. That counts for something. So I let her have her place in my story. Not in charge anymore, but not erased either.
Turns out you can’t punch your way to emotional stability. Who knew?
Building a New Relationship With Yourself
Making peace with your past self means learning to live with contradiction. I can be proud of who I am now and regret who I was. I can love myself and feel shame. And I can forgive myself and still hold myself accountable. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Healing is rarely neat. It’s chaotic, nonlinear, and often involves crying in the bath while eating Cheezels straight from the box.
There are still days when I cringe at my memories. When I think, “Why did I say that? Why did I do that?” But those days are fewer now. Because for every awful thing I said, there’s also something good I’ve done since. A moment of kindness. An apology made. A boundary respected. And when you start tallying those up, you realise you’re not that person anymore. You’re someone who learned.
Growth isn’t about becoming perfect. It’s about becoming aware. Choosing differently. Acting with intention. Even if that intention is just, “Don’t bite anyone today.” I think that’s worth celebrating. I think that’s brave. So if you’re still haunted by who you were when you didn’t know better, take a breath. You’re not her anymore, and you don’t need to love who you were. But you can be proud of who dragged you through the mud just so you could bloom.
We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity
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