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Recently, I've been visiting a psychiatrist in a hospital near my uni. I went there because I thought continuously crying for about twice a day and three times a week for 3 months wasn't normal anymore. I guess I was right. I was told I have "severe" depression, and thankfully without psychotic symptoms (yet).

I was prescribed some medicine, specifically escitalopram oxalate for the depression and anxiety, and clonazepam to calm me down during panic attacks. 

The struggle wasn't only for the inconsistent lows I've been experiencing, but it was mostly the fact that a lot of people think I'm just making up the things I feel, which is very very hurtful in all aspects. It makes me look like a liar, a drama queen, and a needy person. 

I have given up trying to explain to some people that the feelings I experience aren't made up. I have given up trying to explain what I feel, especially when I know the person I'm talking to seems doubtful about what I'm saying.

When people say to me, "Others have it worse! You should be thankful that..." I know. I'm thankful. But pain is relative and I am allowed to feel the pain I'm feeling. Don't make it invalid. 

I may have a lot of things that the average person doesn't, but there are still things I lack despite living a "nice" life. What bothers me isn't the physical world anymore. 

What bothers me would be the contradictory principles of people, their morals, their hidden agendas. I can never understand this world. I can never understand humans. Also, I hated my body and my own mind for a long time and I'm wishing that in a parallel universe, I wouldn't be suffering internally as I do now. 

Maybe, just maybe, in a parallel universe, exists a perfect life.