Surviving the weight of silence

(Trigger Warning: This article contains discussion of mental health crises, self-harm and emotional distress.)

I currently serve as chief of correspondents of the DAILY TRIBUNE. The role involves assigning stories, guiding reporters, and helping deliver news to the public. What is less visible is the long personal struggle that preceded it, one shaped by depression, stigma, public humiliation, and a life-threatening mental health crisis.

This is not a story of achievement. It is a story of survival.

Long before journalism became part of my life, I struggled with a persistent sense of inadequacy. Growing up, I was often compared to others considered more accomplished. Over time, this created constant pressure to prove my worth. Validation became something I chased, believing it might fill a quiet emptiness.

I loved my family, but affection does not automatically erase loneliness. Even when surrounded by people, I often felt unseen. That sense of isolation followed me into adolescence, where it hardened rather than faded.

In high school, the experience worsened. I became the target of bullying by classmates connected to influential families. The ridicule was persistent and unequal. When those responsible carry social or political weight, the imbalance is unmistakable. It leaves a person feeling small and defenseless. I endured it, but the damage did not end there. The effects followed me into adulthood.

College brought me to Baguio City, a place many associate with calm and comfort. For me, it became a period of emotional strain. I lived independently but carried unresolved wounds. I drank often, not for enjoyment, but as a way to escape feelings I did not yet understand.

Eventually, I was clinically diagnosed with depression. I received treatment, including antidepressants, and sought professional help at Baguio General Hospital and Roseville Rehabilitation Center. This introduced another challenge: stigma.

In Philippine society, mental health care remains widely misunderstood. Psychiatric treatment is often reduced to stereotypes or dismissed entirely. Despite this, I continued the treatment because it was necessary. Depression was not drama or weakness. It was a daily effort to remain functional and present.

Years later, I became the subject of a viral meme created by a well-known individual. Overnight, I was reduced to content for ridicule. At the time, the Cybercrime Prevention Act was still new, and enforcement mechanisms were slow and difficult to navigate. Legal remedies existed but were costly and inaccessible.

Online attacks spread quickly. False narratives circulated. Labels followed. These were not simply insults. They stripped away dignity and reinforced stigma. The cumulative weight of unresolved trauma, depression, bullying, and public humiliation became overwhelming.

At my lowest point, I experienced a life-threatening mental health crisis involving attempted self-harm. There was no spectacle and no drama. There was only exhaustion and the belief that existence had become too heavy to carry.

I survived, not because I felt strong, but because others refused to let me disappear. My family stood by me when I could not stand on my own. Their support did not erase the pain, but it anchored me.

Recovery was slow and uneven. There were setbacks and lingering doubts. Stability did not arrive all at once. It was rebuilt gradually, through treatment, support, and time.

Today, I continue my work in journalism. I share this not for sympathy, but to underscore realities that remain easy to dismiss: depression is real, bullying causes lasting harm, and mental health care is not a weakness.