Looking from the outside in, I live a pretty good life. I'm upper middle class. My parents are together, happily married, and very supportive. I have a good home life. I don't have a ton of friends, but I don't have none, either. 
Even so, I'm depressed. There's an aching hole inside me, a loneliness, and a whole lot of pain that just doesn't go away. And when I look at people I know, who's parents are shit, who've been abused, who've been poor, who've had terrible things happen to them, I feel like I'm not worthy of my suffering.
 I should be happy, right? Everything in my life is in order. Nothing terrible has happened to me.
But I'm not happy. I'm empty. I'm lonely. I'm sad. I can't express to my friends or family just how much it hurts, and I can never give a reason why.
There is no "why", but I feel like I need one. I almost wish I had some sort of external struggle, just so I could have something to blame, or something that I could see and actually fight. 
I feel worthless. There are people who desperately want the life I have, yet I'm considering throwing it all away. 
I go on drives and pray that I crash. I pray that I fall down a flight of stairs. That I get cancer. That I get shot. Because then I'd have a reason to be like this. My suffering would be reasonable. I could just die, and it would be understandable. My family could attribute my death to something terribly wrong with my physical self instead of something terribly wrong with my brain. 
I feel both incredibly frustrated with others and with myself when I try to explain what's wrong with me. They want a reason that I just can't give them, and I feel so fucking pathetic for it. I just want them to understand that there's something wrong with my brain. It's the chemicals in my head, not any sort of trauma from my past, that make me so fucking depressed.
And I want to feel like that's okay. Like it's okay that there's just something wrong with me, and that my struggles are entirely internal.