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London 2012 Olympic silver medallist Michael Jamieson has said UK sporting bodies need to pay more attention to elite athletes’ mental health.

The 28-year-old Scot said UK Sport was run as a business with no “direct responsibility” for athlete wellbeing.

Jamieson has announced his retirement from swimming, revealing how a brutal training regime led to depression.

UK Sport said it took its duty of care to athletes “very seriously”, offering a comprehensive” package of support”.

Speaking on BBC Radio Scotland’s Kaye Adams programme, the swimmer said he thought that increasing pressure to win medals could have an impact on the mental health of many athletes.

“There’s been so much success particularly in British sport over recent years that we’ve just becoming accustomed to British athletes winning Olympic gold medals and the work and preparation that goes into that is a decade long.”

Despite the huge sacrifices many athletes make to get to the top, Jamieson said he believed more could be done to care for their wellbeing.

“Ultimately UK Sport is a business and it’s run as such. If sports are looked at as not being able to win the medals they need to justify their funding, then they’re being cut as we’ve seen recently.

“It’s terribly sad for the athletes involved that are directly affected by it.

“But it’s a tough one because UK Sport and other federations involved don’t have a direct responsibility for athlete wellbeing. It’s not really their responsibility.

“They’re there to provide a platform for athletes to win medals.”

Jamieson’s career highlight was an Olympic silver in 2012

Jamieson broke his own British record to finish second in the 200m breaststroke in the 2012 Olympics, but missed out on a medal at the 2013 World Championships after a series of shoulder injuries.

Overtraining in preparation for the 2014 Commonwealth Games led to his heart being restarted and he was beaten by compatriot Ross Murdoch in his favoured event in Glasgow.

He failed to qualify for the World Championships in 2015 and missed out on selection for the 2016 Rio Olympics.

The swimmer told BBC Scotland it was common for many elite athletes to over-analyse their day-to-day performance.
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By Corey Hirsch, retired NHL player

It’s the summer of 1994, I am standing at the edge of a cliff in Kamloops, British Columbia, and I am checking out.

In February, as a 21-year-old starting goalie, I’d backstopped Canada to an Olympic silver medal. In June, as the third goalie for the New York Rangers, I’d drunk out of the Stanley Cup. I have a girlfriend at home. I have a turbo sports car parked behind me. I have the horizon in front of me — so much horizon — and as I look out past the end of it, I am completely calm.

I’m going to see how fast this sports car can go … and drive it right off this cliff.

And then, finally, I’ll be at peace. My thoughts will be gone.

I get in my car and back up a mile and a half so I can get some speed. I’ve been down these roads hundreds of times, while playing junior hockey for the Kamloops Blazers. All I ever wanted to be, ever since I was a little kid, was a goalie. Ever since I saw Gerry Cheevers in that iconic fiberglass mask — you know the one, with the black stitches painted all over it — I just knew. That’s it. I want to be the guy behind that mask. I want to play in the NHL.

Now I’m 22 years old, and I’ve made it to the NHL. I have my whole life ahead of me.

A mental health issue is not a sign of weakness.

And none of it matters.

I crank up the music. I slam my foot down on the gas and try not to think. I am done. I can’t do it anymore.

I’m in first gear, second gear, third gear….

I’m up to 100 mph.

The g-force sucks me back into the seat.

I’m up to 140.

I’m coming up to the cliff. I’m sorry to everybody — I really am. I’m so sorry. But I just can’t do it anymore.

I’m coming up to the edge of the cliff.

This is the end.

Read the rest of Corey’s story.

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By Billy Hurley III, PGA Tour Player

Dear Dad,

When I think about you and your life, my mind is flooded with memories.

I think of you coming home from work in the evenings and compulsively repairing things around the house — a door knob, the gutters, a window frame. I think of our Wiffle ball games in the front yard with me and my three siblings, playing until it was too dark to see the ball.

Most of all, I think of your golf lessons.

From when I first started getting serious about the game, our backyard served as our family’s personal driving range. We didn’t have much space. It was pretty barren out there. We didn’t have grass. We didn’t even have any balls.

But we did have a floodlight and my set of clubs.

Each lesson went the same way. I’d finish my homework and step out onto the back deck. You’d follow me out after putting down your police uniform  — your 10-hour shift having just ended (or sometimes, just about to begin). The floodlight on the house would cast your long shadow across the floorboards toward the yard, into the darkness.

Even though we don’t know why you did what you did, you made an incredible impact on everyone who loved you.

I would take my stance, fiddle with my grip and wag the club head just inches above the deck. And then your voice would cut through the silence.

“Alright, Billy. Take a swing.”

Whoosh.

“Another one.”

Whoosh.

“One more time, but hold it at the top.”

I’d take the club back and stop midway through my swing, holding as still as I could. And then I would turn my neck and look at you.

“The club is not pointed at the target, Billy.”

I’d take another swing.

“Nope, that’s not it. Hold on.”

You’d walk over to me, grab my arm and tweak the position of the club.

“Alright, take the club back again.”

With all the changes, everything would feel foreign — almost as if I had never picked up a golf club in my life. It was infuriating.

“Dad, are you kidding me? This doesn’t feel right at all.”

You’d look at me, head tilted a bit, arms crossed. I knew what you were going to say. I knew exactly what you were going to say.

“I don’t care what it feels like, Billy. Feeling is not reality.”

I’d loosen my grip, let the club head hit the ground and just stand there.

Feeling is not reality.

Feeling is not reality.

Feeling … is not … reality.

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By Jayne Appel-Marinelli, retired WNBA player

An excerpt:
From the outside, we looked like a perfect, well-oiled machine. We were the family that people hoped to have.

Until the cops came.

That was the first time I realized something wasn’t quite so normal.

My coach pulled up to our house. Three police cars were sitting in the driveway.

“I’ll just take you to your neighbor’s house and you can hang out there until your parents can get you,” he said.

I didn’t know what was going on. Usually the police only come when something is wrong and you need help — that’s when you call them. Clearly, my parents needed help. I didn’t ask much, either. My friends and teammates were seeing all of this right beside me. They didn’t have cops at their houses. I was confused, but I was also embarrassed.

I went to my neighbor’s house and waited. After a few hours, my mom came to get me.

“What happened?” I asked.

“There was just a situation with one of your family members and we called for help,” she said.

She didn’t say much more than that, and as a family, we didn’t really address it. I figured it was a one-time thing.

But the episodes continued. The police came again. And again. They were at my house pretty often.

I didn’t know what was going on. Usually the police only come when something is wrong and you need help — that’s when you call them. Clearly, my parents needed help.

“Go upstairs,” my mom instructed us each time. And each time, my brothers and I went to our parents’ bedroom. We chose that room because there was a bathroom attached to it. We were going to be there for a while.

We could always hear yelling, but there were different voices. Sometimes it was the police or a neighbor, sometimes family, and other times, we weren’t sure. We never really knew what was actually happening downstairs. I’d turn the TV on and put the volume up to drown out the screams. They were panic-filled and terrified and angry. I didn’t want to hear any of it — probably for the same reason our mother sent us upstairs: protection. Not from danger but from the image we might have of our family member if we saw or heard too much.

There were about 10 episodes of that scale, but they weren’t predictable. Sometimes we would go six months without one, and sometimes there would be two in one month. The behavior of our family member developed slowly but consistently over time, becoming more prevalent throughout the years. At first, doctors explored different mood disorders and the diagnosis was bipolar. But with each mental psychotic breakdown, we weren’t sure.

It was a long process to reach a diagnosis. It can take years, generally, but we had to find the right doctors — medical and psychiatric — and the right medications, especially if they had side effects. It’s not like you can give a mentally ill patient a drug and ask them, “How do you feel?” A fully functioning person could answer that question with ease. If I broke my leg and was given medication, and asked, “Did this drug help the pain?” I could answer, “Yes, I feel better.”

Read the rest of Jayne’s story.

For more information on Jayne Appel-Marinelli’s mental health advocacy, and information on mental illness, visit www.bringchange2mind.org.

Allison Schmitt a native of Canton, Michigan, is heading to her third Olympic Games.  However, the past four years on her journey to making this Olympic berth were much different than the previous two Olympic cycles.   Allison opens up to the world and speaks candidly about her battle with depression and loss with hopes of helping other athletes find their voice to seek help.

Click here to read her incredible story