I was curled up in my flowery bedding set, my laptop on my left side playing the beautiful artwork that is the adaptation of Stephen Chbosky’s novel ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower’, when these few words rang out: “We accept the love we think we deserve.”
And they resonated again and again… and again.
We accept the love we think we deserve. We accept the love we think we deserve. We accept the love we think we deserve.
These words never quite made sense to me before that night. I could never really picture, concretize and substantialize them before you told me this: “I can’t really fathom why or how you can write such pretty things about me… I’m nothing.” And then it clicked. Chbosky’s words finally meant something.
And I felt sorry.
I am not sorry for feeling the way I do. I am only sorry that you thought you were unworthy of it.
Of my attention, my affection, my support and encouragement. Of the sweet notes and the cute presents. Of my heart. Because you are. An infinity of times. You are worthy of it.
I am not sorry for putting words on feelings and ink on paper. I am only sorry to hear you say you were nothing.
I am sorry that you thought you couldn’t be worth a universe. Because you are. Because everyone is. Everyone withholds an entire galaxy within his or her own soul. And so do you.
I am not sorry for any of it. I am only sorry you didn’t love yourself more. I am only sorry you didn’t want to believe how special and beautiful you are. And I want to tell you. I want to tell you how special and beautiful you are, because – given the way you think of yourself – I’m not sure anybody’s told you before.
You’re not worth how much money you have in your bank account; you’re worth how much love you have in your heart.
And as far as I know, you’re one of the richest people I have ever met.