Follow Paul on Twitter: @paulstewart22

This has been a trying week. I have been at the side of a longtime hockey colleague and dear friend who is battling cancer. Within the last week, the NHL alumni brethren lost another one of its own when Todd Ewen took his own life.

Depression is a terrible issue that many deal with in silence. Of course, it's not unique to hockey or among former players who, like I, played a policeman's role and suffered multiple concussions. I applaud the outreach that the likes of Dignity After Hockey, Shawn Antoski's "Fear Nothing" awareness and support movement, and the efforts that the recently retired Dan Carcillo among others are making. Every little bit helps.

I know where people such as Todd Ewen came from because I've walked in their shoes. To this day, I sometimes wake up feeling overwhelmed and down. I then decide to not surrender and fight back.

it isn't easy being someone "they used to love"; someone whose life and identity revolved around hockey and the role you played in the game. Many ex-players do not have a true game plan for life after hockey. Despite my college degree from the University of Pennsylvania, I lived that plight myself after my playing days were over.

It is not a pleasant memory to recall the time in my life between the end of my playing days as an enforcer and the start of my "second career" as a referee. However, I think that sharing my own story can bring some personal perspective to this subject.

After I played in the NHL for the Quebec Nordiques in the 1979-80 season, the team released me. The Buffalo Sabres and Chicago Blackhawks had some interest in signing me, conditional on impressing the team in training camp.

I chose the Sabres. Training camp went well. Scotty Bowman invited me to the chalet he used as his office with then-head coach Roger Neilson and assistant Jim Roberts. The Sabres offered me a two-year, two-way contract: $60,000 if I played in the NHL with the Sabres and $25,000 if I played in the AHL with Rochester. I was told that I'd begin the season in Rochester but would be called up when the Sabres needed some more toughness in the lineup.

I wanted to accept the deal. In the meantime, however, my first marriage was failing. The hockey life and my single-minded commitment to living it had created an emotional chasm in the relationship. My then-wife, Jan, told me she refused to move to Rochester. She was tired of moving from place to place. Tired of me being away on long road trips. Tired of my preoccupation even when at home. She wanted to put down roots in one place and try to start a family.

I reluctantly turned down the Sabres and decided to take time away from the game, knowing I was probably blowing my best opportunity to continue my NHL playing career.

My marriage proved to be beyond repair and eventually ended in divorce. My heart and head were not where they should have been. I felt resentful and also felt financial stress to make a living since I hardly got rich through hockey. Vocationally, I tried my hand at numerous part-time jobs -- sales, substitute teaching, police work, and hosting a radio talk show. Later, I even found myself -- Penn degree and all -- scrubbing bathrooms and cleaning rugs to earn a few extra bucks.

Whatever I did, I found nothing that filled the void of being on a hockey team and playing in the NHL/WHA. That had been my lifelong dream and, even though I fulfilled it for a short time, now I had to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. There were no obvious answers.

I felt like a failure. I stopped enjoying life and lost my sense of purpose and direction. I found myself turning too much to drinking as a means to cope, especially as I realized that no pro teams were going to wait around for me with a contract. I was done as a pro player, and so I drank early, drank to the wee hours and lost my passion for training. I got out of shape.

During this time, I even had suicidal thoughts cross my mind. I contemplated taking my service revolver, sticking it in my mouth, and pulling the trigger. I realized I needed help and that continuing to pretend to be tougher than I felt would not end well. Unfortunately, I didn't yet have the courage to take the steps to help myself.

The pistol sat there on my lap. I glanced in the mirror and felt disgusted with myself and my life. But I also realized if I quit — in other words if I killed myself — the people who always hadn't believed in me would win. I put the gun down and stood up. I ended up giving the gun to my brother for safe keeping because I just didn't trust myself with it anymore.

Finally, coach Frank "Junie" O'Brien from the Groton School confronted me. We had stayed in contact over the years since I attended there. He knew I was depressed, and gave me some straight talk I needed to hear. He told me I was thinking too much and drinking too much. He encouraged me to seek professional help. Then he ended it with the following words of support.

"Paul, you have a lot more to give," coach O'Brien said. "There are people who believe in you. Don't let them down by letting yourself down. You are tougher than that. Go see someone and talk it out."

I set up an appointment with a psychologist. I was ready to have someone help me to help myself.

Seeking counseling is NOT a sign of weakness. If you can't fix your car on your own, you take it to a mechanic. If you can't fix the plumbing in your house, you hire a plumber. If you can't sort out how to cope with your thoughts and emotions, you go to a professional who can help you get to a better place.

The psychologist and I met three, four, maybe five times. That's all. I wasn't in therapy long because I was ready to embrace what I was being advised to do and the solutions thereafter were actually not all that complicated to figure out. Our conversation in the final session will live in my mind forever.

My therapist asked me a straightforward question. "Paul, if I could put you any place in the world right now, where would you be the happiest?"

I did not hesitate to answer.

"Drive me over to the rink," I replied. "I love being in the rink. I love being around the game and doing the things I did."

"Well, then, I don't need to see you anymore," the psychologist replied. "Go get yourself a job back in hockey. Become a scout. Run a skate shop. Sell hockey equipment. Just do something that involves hockey. Be where you're happiest."

You know that old inspirational saying "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." Some may think it's corny but that conversation really was the genesis of an all-new life for me. It was the start of the path that led me to taking John McCauley's suggestion to give officiating a try and follow in the footstep of my U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame inductee grandfather and my longtime collegiate and high school referee father. It led to a 17-year officiating career in the NHL and staying involved in the sport to this very day.

So to all my brothers who've played or officiated this game and struggle to cope with life afterwards -- or to anyone experiencing a painful, dark time -- I can offer the same words that coach O'Brien and my psychologist offered me.

Don't be afraid to ask for help when you truly need it. No one is tough enough to win the fight alone. There are people who believe in you and will stand by you. Lastly, be where you are happiest and work within the framework of finding a way to stay in that place in some capacity. Ultimately, you will find peace and regain your strength.

Between hockey and the love and support of my family, I have been able to conquer whatever comes my way. In my weakest, saddest moments I return to the place that makes me happy.

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Paul Stewart holds the distinction of being the first U.S.-born citizen to make it to the NHL as both a player and referee. On March 15, 2003, he became the first American-born referee to officiate in 1,000 NHL games.

The longtime referee heads Officiating by Stewart, a consulting, training and evaluation service for officials. Stewart also maintains a busy schedule as a public speaker, fund raiser and master-of-ceremonies for a host of private, corporate and public events. As a non-hockey venture, he is the owner of Lest We Forget.