16.
Six-teen.
Sixteen.
That number seems way too large. I always knew I wanted to grow up but that seems so quick. I can remember when I was 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8... I have memories from when I was 3. How can I almost be 16? Somehow the thought makes me feel sick.
I'm worried about more things now. Is this what it's like to get older? What about when I have kids? Will my worries double? Triple? I can barely keep up with my own troubles. How can I be expected to keep up with theirs?
On another note.
I've decided that there is no point in being scared.
Being scared inevitably leads to regret. And boy do I hate regret.
So I've decided to prove to myself that I deserve to live. It takes more mettle to live than to die, even if sometimes I think it might be so soothing not to worry and so I'm going to prove to myself that I deserve to be alive. I deserve to have been born. I deserve to have opportunities and chances.
I deserve to live without regrets.
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