To the right, you will see the worst picture of me ever taken — it is me in Grade 9 and lives in all its horrid glory in the 1997 Westmount Secondary School yearbook.

I dug it out, and am publishing it for all the world to see because I’ve been thinking a lot about high school over the last few weeks, ever since planning for my high school’s 50th reunion, which happens this May, has kicked itself into high gear.

I still remember the first day I walked into Westmount in Grade 9. I remember how unfamiliar it all was. How cool I thought I suddenly had become, as if I could shed my skin from the torture of elementary school and reinvent myself. As if suddenly I might be understood by my peers. As if I suddenly would be liked by them.

I remember what I had for lunch that day. The best damn cold tacos my Nana had ever made. They were in my brand new lunchbag. I ate at a table in the cafeteria with my childhood best friend and her middle school friends.

I had such high hopes for high school.

I don’t know if I’m going to go to the reunion, which is part of the reason I went rummaging through my hope chest, going through old photos, old cards, old memories.

Partly I don’t know if I want to go because I still kind of stay in touch with people on Facebook. And even the people I’m not friends with on Facebook anymore, I was once and we caught up. I don’t know what else there is to do.

The other reason I don’t want to go is more simple: High school was hell for me.

I know everyone says that. But it really was for me. I never did reinvent myself. Despite my best attempts, I was not popular, or well-liked. I didn’t get that dreamy high school boyfriend until the year I was walking out the door. In fact, I was so boy crazy (and I should emphasize the crazy part), I messed up what could have been some pretty great friendships with some pretty great guys. (Something I was well reminded when I tried to get in touch with one of those high school guys when Facebook was new and cool.)

I don’t blame everyone else for my high school mess entirely. I know I played a big part in my own hell. My attitude and my unwillingness to bend, or try, or act my age (I often acted way too much older), hampered what could have been.

Sure, I had some great times. Performed in some fun musicals, met a great group of friends that became my lifelines in Grade 10 and 11, but high school was not what Sweet Valley High or Saved by the Bell had told me it would be.

Eleven years after graduating, I’m wondering if I even want to walk down those halls again. I’ve only been back to the school half a dozen times since I graduated. Just once since breaking up with my high school boyfriend almost 10 years ago.

I still have lots of feelings of inadequacy, fear and shame of how I acted toward others. I know you can’t fully hold your 15-year-old self accountable for the way you behaved towards others, but I do. And while some have excused my youthful transgressions, happy to write them off as me being “just a kid,” I know others haven’t been so kind. And I just don’t want to face them.

(For the record: I did  not kill anyone as a teen, nor was I a Queen Bee of any kind. I’m mainly talking about stupid shit one does as a teenager.)

What’s the past worth anyway? Is it worth going back and reliving the hell that was my teenage years? Or will the (potential) good outweigh the (potential) bad? And can you ever really make up for the things you did in your past by showing that you’re not that person anymore?

I’ve shown mine. Now you show yours. Leave your tales of Grade 9 woe in the comments below. And if you’re brave enough — add a photo!