In third grade I punched out a bully who'd been picking on me. I was very proud of myself.
In sixth grade I broke a bully's nose with my cast-covered arm, 'cause he was picking on my friend's little brother. I was very proud of myself.
In eighth grade I knocked a kid down and sat on him. Didn't want to hurt him. Later his brother knocked me down and stood on my head. Did want to hurt me. I was neither proud nor ashamed. More surprised that anyone could be so malicious.
Around ninth grade I knocked a neighborhood kid down and smacked him once or twice. I was angry. I was not proud.
That same summer I punched a different neighborhood kid in the face, hard, who'd been trying to bully me. I was very proud.
This is not a large fighting history.
Such as it was, it came to a complete end when the drugs started.