Guitars Radio & Wild Wild Women (The End) Extra Chapter

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A few years ago when Embree McDermid told me that they were finally putting a CKY reunion together, I was very excited. Hoping to get the word out, I checked in with Warren Cosford to see if he knew what had happened to folks like Rick Hallson. (pictured above). Rick and I had worked together at CKY when we were kids, and then I’d heard that he’d worked with Warren at CHUM in Toronto. Warren told me that he had lost touch with Rick but had heard that he suffered from depression and even had tried to commit suicide.
Like most people, I know nothing about depression, but I’ve had several brushes with it over the years. You’d be surprised to learn how many of your friends suffer from it. Unfortunately, a lot of them though do it in secret.
The first time I ever heard about depression was when I flew back to Winnipeg for a reunion of our old football team, The Transcona Nationals. 
On the morning of our big get together, Bill “Bomba” Wakeman told me that he’d be unable to come because he was depressed. Not knowing what he meant, I asked, “What the hell are you depressed about?” He said that he didn’t know.
The next time depression raised its ugly head was when my brother Reg went back to Winnipeg for a reunion with the CKRC folks. When Reg worked there, his CO-PD was Billy Gorrie who told him that he was very excited about the reunion and could hardly wait to see everybody again. Billy never showed!
A few weeks later, Reg got an email from him explaining that he had sat in the parking lot for over an hour but just couldn’t get out of the car. I along with several others got a very different kind of Email from Billy. He described how happy he finally was after so many years of torment, but as I continued to read it, I began to realize that this happy email was not going to have a happy ending. Billy thanked his many friends and co-workers for their friendship over the years, and sure enough, the email turned out to be his obituary.
I published a Blog about the hell Bomba, Billy, and Rick must have been going through. When it posted, I got all kinds of reactions from folks sharing their own experiences including a pissed off Email from my sister-in-law who has never spoken to me since. However, the most surprising reaction I got was the email I received below.

Hello George,

I think the last time we talked was 1963 when Sandy Koufax won the MVP award in that years’ World Series. Maybe that’s going back a little far, but it’s in the ballpark. I was directed to your website last night by Ken Porteous, an old CHUMer, and lifelong friend. He found news of the death of Bill Gorrie. I am shocked and saddened to hear about Bill’s demise by suicide. Bill, Ken, and I were just three on a long list of Silver Heights Collegiate grads who were drawn to radio in the early sixties, primarily by the dynamic CKY talent with jocks such as Jimmy Darrin, J. Robert Wood, Chuck Dann, and the amazing on-air execution. ‘KY was huge and working at the station for me, being barely 17, was a gift.

Bill Gorrie was kind, gentle, supportive, humorous, upbeat, flexible, honest, to name a few. That was my experience with him during the time I worked at CKRC. I guess that’s why I was so shocked at learning about his suicide. That just doesn’t fit with what I knew of him, his character, his comfortable drive and his kindness toward others. But then, someone who lives with chronic depression lives two lives. One is hidden deep within while the other part struggles to live with a sense of normalcy. I know because I have lived that. I attempted suicide three years ago. I don’t know what Bill’s issues were, but in my case, I carried my issues as far as I could–until August 28, 2008. My demons had won. I was completely surprised when I woke up 26 hours later, and it was shortly after waking up when I became somewhat lucid that I realized I was getting a second chance at life. Since then, I have used my experience and skills as a two-decade professional speaker to advocate for mental wellness and the rights of those who are affected by mental illness. (That’s a long way from executing a dynamic intro sitting on the edge of the jock chair in front of a mic in the control room.)

Could Bill have been persuaded to leave the parking lot the night of the CKRC reunion party? No one will ever know. A couple of months after my suicide attempt and release from the psych ward, I became certified in suicide intervention so that I could better understand suicide and perhaps help others in crisis. One who deals with chronic depression feels shame and a sense of hopelessness, every day. It never leaves. There is no relief. Stigma is a huge issue. Stigma is embedded in our health care system—even within the silo of mental health. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it. It’s there in all its ugliness. Bill’s pain is gone. May he rest in peace. What a shame. What a loss.

I did write a book about my experience with my suicide attempt. It sits in a folder on my computer. I’ve never sent it to a publisher for consideration. I’m not sure why but I had to write it for the sake of writing it. Please let me share a few lines from the book with you and your readers. “Within weeks of my release from the hospital after my suicide attempt, I attended a suicide survivor’s gathering. It’s an annual event staged for family and friends who have lost a loved one to suicide. Speakers addressed an audience of about 150, relating their personal stories: anguish, guilt, fear, hurt, anger, frustration, pain; stories that rang so loud it was deafening; Oh how they wish they could turn back the clock and perhaps change an outcome. As the ceremony continued, I became so profoundly aware of what I had done, as never before, and even in my survival, how I had hurt the people who loved and cared for me. I stood in a back corner of the room watching and listening to the stories one after another, trying to keep my crumbling composure in check. It was so hard to be there. As I walked away after the final prayer from the podium, I decided to write my book. I need to write it for my own sake: fifty years of dealing with my personal demons had almost cost me my existence. It had to end. If telling my story helps even a single human being from taking that final step—suicide, then it is worth every word.”

Like so many others, I will remember Bill Gorrie.
Take care, George.
Rick Hallson




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