I want to explain the picture in my Twitter avatar...

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Let's talk about the human brain.

It weighs about three pounds and contains about 86 billion nerve cells, or neurons. These neurons are connected by trillions of connections, or synapses, that transmit information to other cells and muscles. By firing these connections, the human brain can invent life-saving technology, create inspiring music and see plays develop on a 200-foot-by-85-foot sheet of ice. The brain can also mysteriously, ruthlessly and sometimes silently, torment us. We need to figure out why.

Let's talk about John Saunders.

John -- who covered sports, including the NHL, for ESPN from 1986-2004 -- died a little over a year ago, on Aug. 10, 2016, from a combination of an enlarged heart, complications from his diabetes and dysautonomia, an autonomic nervous system disorder. He was 61. We are lucky it wasn't sooner.

John's death was shockingly sad and it was felt deeply within the walls of ESPN, all around the media industry and throughout his beloved hockey world. He was universally loved and respected for his talent, his sincere warmth and the effortless charm he showered on everyone. John looked you directly in the eye. He had an explosive laugh and he was, like many hockey fans, fun to be around.
He also had a secret known to only a few; John struggled with severe depression, and had suffered both physical and mental abuse. You might have endured some of the same things that John did. I know I did. But I can't imagine bearing everything that John did, beginning with the traumatic events of his childhood and his abusive father.

You would never have known John was suffering. He always appeared genuinely happy and content, even while he was battling depression and harboring suicidal thoughts. He had been working on a memoir for quite some time before he died. The book, "Playing Hurt: My Journey From Despair to Hope," co-authored John U. Bacon, was published posthumously on Aug. 8.

John and I talked on July 12, 2016, at the ESPYs golf tournament near Los Angeles. He was the master of ceremonies for the pre- and post-golf festivities. He introduced some guest speakers and thanked the golfers for helping raise millions for the V Foundation and its cancer research. John and I sat at the same table.

I'd known John well since I began working on ESPN's hockey coverage in 1998. We were hired 10 years apart, John in 1986 and me in 1996. We had golfed together (he had terrible putting yips) and spent many nights out together with the big, warm ESPN hockey family at NHL All-Star Games and the Stanley Cup Final.

During a break in the ESPY golf festivities, John asked, as he always did, how I was doing. And I told him, in a hushed tone, "Not well."

I had been divorced for nine months and separated for two years before that, and I was not handling it well. I'm still not. I told John that I was periodically depressed, couldn't really feel joy anymore and, at times, had dark thoughts that were both embarrassing to me (considering that I have so much to be grateful for) and, obviously, daunting. I felt ashamed that I was depressed.

I told John that my default move was to withdraw and isolate. I would occasionally go out or host a friend or colleague over for dinner, which did help. Also, helping others (I'm a middle-child pleaser) became a priority and made me feel temporarily better. It's my go-to "drug" to feel help myself better and/or worthy. I also hurriedly shared with John some things that had happened during my youth that likely contributed to my tendencies toward withdrawal and isolation. (Unlike John -- who detailed in his book how his parents mistreated him -- I was/am fortunate to have two great parents. They're affectionate and supportive. The best.)

John looked back at me with a deer-in-the headlights stare that I took as courteous concern.. Now I understand why. But on that sunny day, with so many people around us and with his MC duties beckoning, he simply said, "Let's talk again soon."

Less than a month later, John Saunders was dead.

Some surprisingly sad and dark passages from his book were made public earlier this summer and the entire book was made available in September. I read the entire 293 pages in one sitting. I couldn't put it down.

I read that John's formative years were marked by abusive parents, numbing drug use and overt racism. In addition to his lifelong struggle with depression, John still was recovering from the concussion-like symptoms he suffered after falling and hitting his head in September 2011. He wrote in the book that he considered suicide in early 2012. "Killing myself seemed the only option that could end my pain, but the idea of actually doing it scared the hell out of me," he wrote.

John -- who was an all-star defenseman in the Montreal junior leagues and played for Western Michigan before embarking on his broadcast career -- was a hockey guy. Like many other people both inside and outside the sport, he faced mental health struggles.
Although their circumstances were different, the suicides of former NHL players Wade Belak, Rick Rypien, Todd Ewen and Steve Montador over the past decade shook the hockey world and sparked discussion about whether depression can result from on-ice head trauma.

There's so much we still don't know. Was their suffering linked to the degenerative disease chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE)? Were some predisposed to depression regardless of external factors? How much of mental health is hereditary, and how much is tied to traumatic events or injury?

The brain is the most complex part of our bodies. In many ways, it's the final frontier of medical and biological research -- how to understand and properly treat the brain when it's injured physically or psychologically. And it's not just hockey players who suffer.

Patrick Burke, the NHL's director of player safety, went public with his battle with depression four years ago.

"The hardest, toughest and bravest thing I've ever had to do in my life was my battle with depression -- leaving school, getting on medication, seeing a therapist, and putting the time and effort in to make changes to fight back against a disease that is constantly telling you to give up," Burke, 34, says now. "The really insidious thing about depression is that it lies to you, every day, about who you are, what you're worth and how you're doing. People who haven't been through it have no idea what it's like."

The good news is that the issue is in the public eye and being discussed in a much more open way now than ever before.

Bell "Let's Talk" Day, an annual, national campaign in Canada to end stigma surrounding mental health, raised more than $6.5 million for the cause from texts, phone calls and social media interactions in January. NHL players and fans have participated in the effort on Twitter the last few years. According to Bell, the goal is to donate at least $100 million through 2020.
The NHL and hockey world probably have had the most robust conversation about mental health of any major sports following the string of suicides, as well as the tragic deaths of former enforcers Bob Probert and Derek Boogaard. But what's next? What can -- and will -- tangibly be done to affect the kind of progress we've seen for, say, ACL injuries?

Let's talk about Corey Hirsch. Hirsch played 108 NHL games and was Canada's goalie in the 1994 Olympic goal medal game. He was in net when Peter Forsberg scored his famous "postage stamp" shootout goal to help Sweden beat Canada and win the gold medal.
Last February, Hirsch penned a haunting and moving piece for The Players Tribune detailing his obsessive-compulsive disorder and brush with suicide. Hirsch is now the Vancouver Canucks' radio color analyst and speaks to corporations, high schools and youth groups, educating them on mental-health issues and suicide awareness.

I recently asked Hirsch some questions about mental health. Here are his responses:
How would you characterize your obsessive-compulsive disorder now?

Hirsch: "I would characterize my OCD as being in recovery. I will never say 'cured,' because OCD has a nasty way of disguising itself and popping up at the most obscure times. However, when I was at my worst, it felt as though my OCD was screaming at me 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The only time I had peace was when I was asleep. Now it's a faint whisper that pops up rarely, and when it does I have the tools and skills to bat it away easily and peacefully. I haven't truly struggled with it for probably 10 years now."
We saw a fantastic response to Bell's "Let's Talk" campaign on Twitter from the hockey world. How can it it help people?

Hirsch: "[The campaign] has helped bring huge awareness to mental health. The publicity it attracts is enormous."

John Saunders' struggles, like many people's, were not known by most, even those closest to him. Are there signs that parents or spouses or friends can look for, something that could possibly help people help sooner or before it's too late?

Hirsch: "Things to look for are people withdrawing from society and social activities. Substance abuse, being late for things, or always making excuses for being late or missing things. People with mental-health issues become masters at hiding it and master excuse makers. It's survival for most of us. Not being able to get out of bed is a big sign. Somedays I had enough trouble just getting up to brush my teeth, let alone stopping pucks in the NHL. A person who is struggling will seem just void of any joy. OCD people will continually ask for reassurance about a situation or incident."

If we're using hockey terms, what "period" is mental health awareness in? Are we still in the first period? Is there an ability to differentiate or tailor medication and or treatment for particular ailments?

Hirsch: "Good question. We are still in warm-up! The problem is that when someone asks for help, they don't know where to go. Our referral system is terrible, and it's like throwing a dart at a dart board, trying to find a therapist and medication that can help. We need to get mental-health education in our schools. We teach our kids how to protect themselves and not create a life, but we don't teach them how to save their own lives. I am creating a project that is called 'Lose the Mask' It will center around teaching our youth about mental-health issues."

Some people are leery of treating mental-health issues with medication. Has medication helped you?

Hirsch: "Medication is why I am still here today. It took the edge off so I could get therapy and get better. Without it I'm not sure I would have made it. Would you ever tell someone with diabetes or heart disease to stop taking their medication? Mental health is no different. Suicide is the second biggest killer among teens in North America. I am medication-free today, mostly because medication allowed me to get back in the game and get therapy, which gave me the mental tools that I needed to get better. With that said, I also got better with my OCD when I found a Ph-educated therapist and got on some medication."


I miss John Saunders.

After reading his book, which helped unlock some explanations for me, I miss him even more. I'd like, selflessly, to be there for him more and, selfishly, to have him here for me. I still come from the generation of mostly "do-it-yourself" rehab. Instead of seeking help, I withdraw, isolate, become even more of a people-pleaser/doer, and hand out compliments like M&M's. When you're down, you don't want anyone else to feel that low and you'd do anything to prevent it. You offer help, ask how people are doing, coach, raise money. I think that's why John was always so giving and friendly. And why he wrote his book with John Bacon, who captured John's voice flawlessly.

Which brings us to the current photo I'm using as my Twitter Avatar.

Let's talk about Josh Merriman.

He's the young man in my Twitter avatar photo. Josh was born in 1996, the year I was hired at ESPN. He graduated from the same high school that I did -- Steubenville Catholic Central, in Steubenville, Ohio. We have a lot in common, Josh and I. We both grew up playing hockey, golf and baseball.

Josh played hockey his entire life, including for a high school across the Ohio River in West Virginia while attending classes at my alma mater. He was an all-state hockey player for three consecutive years and went on to play for Robert Morris University's Division III club team for three years. He was entering his senior year this fall, with a chance to wear the captain's "C" during his final competitive skating season. Josh was set to graduate in December with a degree in finance and business administration. He loved watching hockey and playing the #bucciovertimechallenge.

As my Twitter avatar picture shows, Josh, like John Saunders, was fun, expressive, full of life. When I saw him, it was a warm, outgoing, smiling exchange. He was also loved by just about everyone who met him.

Last month, September 16th, on a Saturday night, Josh Merriman killed himself while at home in Wintersville, Ohio. The heavy waves of dread that would periodically appear in his head were too much for his occasional, hard earned, peace of mind.

He's gone.
That smile in the picture is gone.
Just like that.

Another victim of a silent killer living deep within a complicated brain.

Let's talk -- and keep talking -- about mental health.


(Bell Let's Talk Day is January 31, 2018)

(You can buy John Saunders book here: https://www.amazon.com/Playing-Hurt-Journey-Despair-Hope/dp/0306824736)

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