Their tales, all different to a degree, share the same path, which leads to the search for relief, a road paved in part by Artest.

Asked about fellow players and people from other walks of life emerging from the shadows to tell their stories, Artest sounds like someone who feels a great sense of satisfaction.

“I thought it was good that they did that,” he says. “NBA players are just normal people. They deserve to be treated as normal, and sometimes it’s hard to be normal when you’re playing at the highest level and playing before millions of people. What Kevin and DeMar did was normalize what they were going through. And people who were going through the same issues, people who weren’t as famous, could relate to them.

“Kevin and DeMar are equally important to this awareness as myself. It’s about human life. About Kevin and DeMar making athletes feel more comfortable. They’re getting people to talk about it.”

Highs and lows in NBA days

Ron Artest says he lost much in the wake of the 'Malice at the Palace' in 2004.

Artest almost sounds as if he has a doctorate in psychology. And while he never took a class in that, he spent countless hours being tutored. The words come freely with no hesitation. You ask, he tells. And there is much to say.

At his highest point athletically, Artest was one of the league’s premier two-way players, the Kawhi Leonard of his day. Tough, fearless and determined, Artest was hell on anyone dribbling the ball and won Defensive Player of the Year in 2003-04. He also could rebound (6.5 rpg with the Sacramento Kings in 2006-07), pass and score. He averaged 20.5 ppg in 2007-08 and played 17 NBA seasons.

His signature moment came later in his career, though. He bailed out Lakers legend Kobe Bryant, who misfired throughout Game 7 of the 2010 Finals, and his shot put the bow on the Lakers’ 16th and most recent championship. Artest took a pass, and from the deep corner launched the 3-pointer that extended the Lakers’ lead and put the champagne on ice.

Now retired, Ron Artest still lives in L.A. (and still attends some Lakers games).

Of course, those peaks were dwarfed by the fateful night in the Detroit suburbs when he went on a rampage through the stands. “The Malice at the Palace” in 2004 has its own carved-out space in NBA dishonor, with Artest serving as the ringleader who sent part of America tsk-tsking about race and sports violence and losing control.

He was suspended for the remainder of the 2004-05 season on Nov. 21, 2004 and estimates that night cost him $50 million in fines, future salary and endorsements. He earned a 7-game suspension in 2012 when he delivered an unsolicited (and vicious) elbow to then-Oklahoma City Thunder guard James Harden. Those were a few of the multiple acts of misbehavior from a player who stamped a reputation for himself.

“Showing up to practice and disrupting practice, showing up a coach or a teammate, just going over the line,” he says quietly. “There’s a lot of things I wish I had done differently. But maybe I couldn’t at that time. I felt trapped.”

'I always had anger issues'

My introduction to Artest came when he was 18; he was a freshman at St. John’s University, I was a sports columnist at Newsday. It was inside a locker room at the United Center in Chicago, moments after St. John’s was eliminated from the NCAA tournament. In one corner was Felipe Lopez, the former New York schoolboy sensation who’d just played his final college game, shaking and sobbing into a towel.

In another corner was Artest, a far less-celebrated New York schoolboy sensation, eyes dry and open wide.

Emotions, at times, got the better of Artest during his playing career.

Losing a basketball game caused some ache but this was hardly the definition of pain for someone from Queensbridge, the largest public housing development in America. Artest certainly saw and heard and felt worse in a neighborhood where a fist to the face, or something more sinister, wasn’t far away. His world changed when his parents divorced while he was still a boy, and he had an often-troubled relationship with his father. Thrown for a loop, Artest lost control.

“I always had anger issues because that’s all I grew up around, anger,” he says. “I also had love and that’s why people see two sides from me. I saw my parents happy and mad. I grew up with friends who were happy and the next moment guns were firing. As a kid it was unbalanced and confusing. There was never a chance to relax. It was just get up and see what’s going to happen today. I might have a good day. I might wake up on the other side of the bed. I was suspended in nursery school, kindergarten, first through 12th grade every year for fighting. In college I got in trouble and in the NBA I was in trouble for something or another every year except my last year.”

There was always a charming side to Artest, whose alter-ego behavior was often rationalized as just being different, innocent, quirky. Like when he applied for a job at an electronics store during his rookie season with the Chicago Bulls so he could get the employee discount. Or when he asked the Pacers, his next team, for time off during the season so he could go on a promotional tour for his eponymous rap album. Fun, goofy stuff like that.

In his heyday with the Pacers, Ron Artest was one of the NBA's top two-way players.

Something else simmered underneath, though, and initially Artest struggled to come to grips with it. He knew he wasn’t right, and while he spoke with counselors during his high school and college days, he didn’t receive the deep-diving psychological help that his condition demanded until much later.

When he finally received professional help, he was forced to do so: One of the court-ordered conditions for Artest after being sentenced to 20 days in jail (he served 10) for domestic violence in 2007, when he played for the Kings, was examination for anger management and other possible mental health issues. Artest has had regular visits ever since.

“I was the best two-way player in the league at 24,” he says. “I was also spiraling downward emotionally. My emotions were eating away at my skills. Like a parasite eating away at your body. It was eating away at my skill and my work habits and my mental focus and my discipline.

“Before I got into the brawl I wanted to retire. I requested papers to file to the NBA. I knew something was terribly wrong and nobody really knew. The league called and asked if I really wanted to do this. I needed time away because I couldn’t get a hold of myself. There were so many things bothering me, so many things I couldn’t handle: Taking care of so many people, wanting to have fun, not being a loyal partner with my now ex-wife … I said, ‘OK, I need a break. I need to put my life in order.’ I didn’t go through with retirement but I wish I did. It wasn’t about the money. I was going crazy by 2008.”

Pressing on for good of others, cause

Right around that time, Artest began taking an active role in the mental-health movement. He lent his name to the cause. He spoke with experts in the field. He met with city officials in Sacramento and urged them to promote mental health awareness in the public schools, stressing that early recognition is the key. He fed his curiosity by reading, learning, probing.

Artest was part of the California movement to adopt lime green as the color for mental health awareness and is active during May, the month designated to observe awareness. It’s all designed to help those suffering from, but not limited to, bipolar disorder, depression and schizophrenia.

“I was doing it because there was a lot of people out there who needed some help and they weren’t getting it,” he said.

Ron Artest speaks with self-help guru Tony Robbins (right) at a Warriors game last season.

Artest became a regular patient for therapists in Sacramento, Houston and LA when he began bouncing from team to team once his career reached the sunset years. Without therapy, Artest was asked if he’d be in position to take the shot that won a championship.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

What happened next was the actions of a changed man who still kept his quirk: He put his championship ring up for raffle nationwide in 2009, with the proceeds helping to fund mental health charities. With a minimum purchase of five tickets at $2 each, the contest raised $651,000, far more than what the ring would’ve fetched in a straight auction.