My name is Jasper Dawang, and today I serve as the Chief of Correspondents of the DAILY TRIBUNE. I assign stories sometimes, lead correspondents, and help deliver news that matters to the Filipino public. People often see only the professional image — the position, the stability, the achievements. What many do not know is the long and painful journey that brought me here, a path marked by loneliness, clinical depression, stigma, public humiliation, and a suicide attempt that almost ended everything.

This is not fiction.

This is my life.

And I survived it.

Long before journalism became part of my identity, my life had already been shaped by struggle. Growing up, I constantly felt pressure to prove myself. Whether intentional or not, I was frequently compared to “more successful” people. That created a deep internal wound — the persistent feeling of not being enough. I learned to chase validation and attention, hoping it would fill the emptiness I carried.

I loved my family. That has never been in question. But love alone does not automatically erase loneliness. You can be surrounded by people and still feel isolated. As a child, I often felt invisible. I fought quietly to be seen, to be acknowledged, to matter. I carried this emotional burden into adolescence, and life did not make things easier.

In high school, things took a harsher turn. A group of politicians’ sons, along with their friends, turned me into a target. I was mocked, belittled, and bullied. Maybe it was because I was different. Maybe because I didn’t belong to their circles. Whatever their reason, they decided I was someone they could crush without consequence. When bullying comes from people who have influence, it feels worse. You know they have protection. You know the system is slow to defend you. It makes you feel small and powerless.

They tried to belittle me.

They tried to define me.

They tried to destroy my confidence.

But I endured. I survived that part of my life. Today, I am proud to say I no longer live under their shadow. I did not become who they wanted me to be. I did not break into their definition of me. However, their cruelty left scars, and those scars followed me into adulthood.

College brought me to Baguio City. To many people, Baguio is peaceful — pine trees, fog, sweaters, coffee shops, and calm air. For me, however, Baguio became a place of deep emotional struggle. I was physically independent but emotionally fragile. I drank often, not out of enjoyment, but as a way to escape feelings I did not yet know how to face.

Eventually, I was clinically diagnosed with depression. It was not speculation. It was a medical reality. I was placed on antidepressants for a long period of time. I often visited Baguio General Hospital, and I repeatedly sought help from Roseville Rehabilitation Center in Baguio, a psychiatric and mental health facility. I wasn’t “crazy,” I wasn’t unstable — I was a person dealing with a legitimate mental health condition.

And yet, that was another battlefield: stigma. In Philippine society, the moment someone hears “psychiatrist” or “mental health facility,” the worst assumptions come out. People equate psychiatric help with being insane. They turn mental health into a joke. They do not see it as healthcare. They do not see it as survival. But I knew I needed help. So I kept going. I fought quietly. I took my medication. I tried to hold on. Depression was real, clinical, and it wasn’t about drama or attention. It was a fight to stay alive.

Years later, I became the victim of something deeply cruel — a viral meme created by someone known and influential at the time. Suddenly, I was no longer a person. I became content. An object for laughs, ridicule, and public commentary.

The Cybercrime Prevention Act was still relatively new, barely three years old. Law enforcement agencies were still adjusting and learning how to address digital harassment. Yes, safeguards existed. Yes, laws were written. But identifying perpetrators and implementing justice was complicated, slow, and expensive. I did not have the financial resources to fight back legally.

While legal processes struggled, the internet moved fast. The attacks spread quickly. I was mocked for things that weren’t even real. Strangers judged me. People I thought were friends joined the crowd. And then came the labels:

“Crazy.”

“Psycho.”

“Schizo.”

All the stigmas imaginable were thrown at me. These weren’t just insults. They stripped away dignity. They dehumanized me. And this time, the weight became unbearable.

Depression, childhood wounds, loneliness, bullying, and now public humiliation all collided. One day, everything reached its breaking point.

I attempted to end my life.

There was no dramatic moment. No heroic scene. Just a human being who no longer wanted to exist because the world felt impossibly heavy. My mind convinced me that my life had no worth and that silence was better than staying alive.

But this is not the story of how I died.

This is the story of how I lived.

I survived my suicide attempt not because I felt strong at that moment, but because something — and people — refused to let me go. My family stood by me. They became my anchor when I could no longer carry myself. They fought for me when I had already surrendered. Their presence did not instantly heal everything, but it grounded me. It gave me a reason to continue.

Recovery was not instant. It was slow, uncomfortable, and full of uncertainty. There were setbacks. There were days I still felt worthless. There were moments when I continued to question my purpose. But slowly, step by step, I survived. I stabilized. I rebuilt.

Eventually, life gave me another chance, not only to exist, but to lead, to grow, and to build something meaningful out of what I had gone through.

Today, I am the Chief of Correspondents of the DAILY TRIBUNE. I work on the frontlines of truth and storytelling. I lead correspondents. I help keep the public informed. People may see confidence now, but that confidence was forged through struggle. People may see leadership, but that leadership was shaped by surviving pain. People may see success, but that success was built after moments where I thought everything was already over.

I do not share this story for sympathy. I share it because it matters. It matters that people understand depression is real. It matters that mental health is taken seriously. It matters that bullying — in school or online — is acknowledged for the danger it truly brings. And it matters that families learn to listen.

If you are going through something similar, here’s the truth: it is hard. It is exhausting. It drains you mentally and emotionally. There will be days when you want to give up. There will be moments when you may think the world is better without you. I know because I have been there.

But you are not useless.

You are not weak.

You are not “crazy” for needing help.

Seeking psychiatric help does not make you broken. It makes you brave. Asking for support — from family, friends, or professionals — is not weakness. It is survival.

I survived my darkest seasons. I am still here. And I am proud to still be here. If I made it out, others can too. That is why I share this story. Because survival is not something to hide. It is something to honor, respect, and stand proudly for.

I am Jasper Dawang.

I am a journalist.

I am a survivor.

And my story did not end — it continues.

If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts or emotional distress, help is available.

Philippines (24/7 Crisis Hotlines):

• National Center for Mental Health (NCMH) Crisis Hotline: 0917 899 8727 / 989-8727

• Hopeline PH: 0966 351 4518 / 0917 558 4673

If you are outside the Philippines:

Search for a local crisis hotline or reach out to the nearest emergency mental health service in your area.

You are not alone — support exists, and life is worth staying for.