As the 2012 Russell Wilson pass that would soon be known as the "Fail Mary" floated through the Seattle air, Lance Easley was still an anonymous NFL replacement referee.

In his regular life, he was a vice president with Bank of America, a family man, a devout Christian and someone who for decades in California spent his free time refereeing high school football, small college basketball, whatever he could.

Today, everything is different.

It's more than two years since Easley made one of the most infamous calls in NFL history. It left him under siege from the media, both traditional and social. Players and coaches blasted him. Late-night comics mocked him. Irate fans and gamblers hammered him with crank calls and death threats. The controversy extended all the way to the presidential campaign trail with both Barack Obama and Mitt Romney addressing it.

View photos Lance Easley was relatively anonymous until a MNF game in 2012. (Getty Images) More

Today, Easley says, the man he was is gone. Perhaps only his faith remains the same. Today, everything else is up for grabs. Today, it's all a struggle.

"Right now I'm just trying to keep my life together," Easley told Yahoo Sports in a series of interviews just as the focus on the Fail Mary returns with the Green Bay Packers and Seattle Seahawks meeting Sunday for the NFC championship. "It's really difficult."

Easley, 55, says he is suffering from severe depression. It's an illness he periodically struggled with during his life but flared up significantly in the past year as he has tried, unsuccessfully, to put that night in Seattle, and the overwhelming pressure that followed, behind him.

He was diagnosed last year, he said, with post-traumatic stress disorder. He managed the original onslaught of attention only to see his life spin out of control in the past year. Crippling panic attacks felt as if his heart was exploding. A fear of leaving the house left him rattled. Depression proved debilitating, making him suddenly ineffective at work.

"It's almost like a funeral," Easley said. "In the days around it you have a lot of support and you make it through. But as time goes by, you still have to process [the loss of a loved one]."

He sought treatment, both aggressive counseling and doctor-prescribed drugs. It didn't always help. There were suicidal thoughts.

"I felt like I didn't want to be here anymore," Easley said. "I never acted on it. It was horrible to have those thoughts. I hated having those thoughts."

In July 2014, Easley could hardly function. His doctors felt unable to control the situation and wanted to be able to watch him more closely as they changed his medicines. Under their advice, he said, he entered the Vista del Mar Hospital, an acute psychiatric facility in Ventura, Calif.

A week later he transferred to the Balance Treatment Center, a mental health rehab center in Calabasas, Calif., where he stayed through August. Upon release, he went through near daily counseling on an outpatient basis. He relapsed in November, he said, and returned to Balance Treatment for three more weeks and is now an outpatient again.

Since June, per doctor's orders, he's been on medical leave with Bank of America. His 30-year career is now stalled out. His finances are a predictable mess. In September he says he separated from his wife of 28 years.

He no longer feels comfortable in his home community on the Central Coast and is spending much of his time in Los Angeles. There have been days he, a guy whose life once consisted of racing around from one activity to the next – work, family, church, games – didn't want to see anyone or do anything.

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