My husband killed himself on New Year’s Eve & I’ll always blame myself, Graham Thorpe’s death brought it all back

ALMOST nine years ago, when husband Adam killed himself, Melissa Todd felt shock, guilt and, above all else, fury.

Hearing the news this week that former England cricketer Graham Thorpe – a loved husband and father – had also chosen suicide, brought her feelings flooding back.

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Now writer Melissa, from Broadstairs, Kent, describes how she struggled to come to terms with Adam’s death.

My husband killed himself on New Year’s Eve.

I got home about five and found a note that read: “Don’t go upstairs. Call the police.”

Although it couldn’t have been clearer, and I knew what it signified, I stood staring, unable to think what to do next.

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Eventually, a neighbour passed by and suggested I do as I was told.

I heard my voice explain very calmly that my husband had a history of mental illness and I suspected he had taken his own life.

They told me to wait on the pavement.

Soon, there were sirens.

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Two female police officers went upstairs and returned to tell me there was a man dead in the hallway.

Thus, I learned I was a widow, aged 39.

Once he was identified, I wasn’t allowed in the house.

It was a crime scene.

I sat in the police car watching as they worked their way through all the rooms looking for evidence of foul play.

They asked if I wanted his wedding ring or watch removed from his person.

I retched at the thought.

Everything he had ever touched seemed suddenly contaminated, loathsome.

It was 2015 and we had been together 14 years.

Raised a child together.

That is a lot of memories to want eviscerated.

I went back to my mum’s to give a statement — where I had been at the time, and how the day had unfolded.

They were nice but I still felt accused.

We’d had a row earlier.

I’d left the house angry.

What kind of wife goes to work simmering over petty nonsense, while her husband sits at home planning suicide?

I went home the next day.

He’d had a beer and a mince pie, and the newspaper he’d been reading lay open.

I threw the beer bottle in the bin then the favourite snacks he’d bought for a Christmas treat.

His wallet.

After that, I emailed everyone who needed to know.

I explained he’d been unhappy since his parents died, that we weren’t getting on, that we’d just bought a music therapy business and he was struggling with the stress — that sounded plausible but I’d no idea if it was true.

When I’d finished, I had to go to the airport to collect my 14-year-old son and tell him.

He had spent Christmas and New Year in Montreal, Canada, visiting his grandparents.

Doubtless that’s why Adam chose that moment.

He had the house to himself.

Scolded for my rage

On that drive, I went through every emotion — violent, overwhelming grief, elation, despair, longing, fury.

Fury felt best.

I settled on that.

And I am not alone.

One study found 45 per cent of bereaved loved ones have feelings of rage after losing someone to suicide.

For months after his death, I sent him texts.

Adam was a clever, insightful man, his natural wit sharpened by years of therapy, and his death made me yearn for him as never before.

I was always aware of his mental health problems.

He had been in a mental health institution for two years back in the 1980s.

He could never hold down a job.

Normal activities other couples take for granted were impossible for us.

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I would send angry messages: “Boiler’s on the blink. No, don’t worry, I’ll sort it, you just carry on being dead, I’ll just take care of everything, shall I, for ever?”

But people do not care for angry widows.

I was scolded for my rage.

I told a female friend how angry I felt and she was furious with me — said it wasn’t his fault, he was depressed, how could I be so selfish and unsympathetic?

It was me I was angry at, of course. How could I not have guessed what was on his mind that day?

Melissa

I should be weeping daintily into a handkerchief.

But angry was how I felt.

It was me I was angry at, of course.

How could I not have guessed what was on his mind?

How could I have left the house?

Why was my love not enough?

Graham Thorpe’s wife Amanda said that despite having a wife and children he loved, and who loved him, he believed they would be better off without him.

I know how hard that is to come to terms with.

Why did death seem preferable to life with me?

It was six months before I could read a book or listen to music.

I couldn’t bear to be made to think or feel.

Sorrow strikes

I worked, all I could, and when I went home I drank until I fell asleep.

Eighteen months later I moved house and married a man as unlike Adam as I could find — happy-go-lucky, sociable, sunny-tempered, not in the least bit tortured.

He knew my background, held me when I sobbed, listened to me rant and rave.

It worked, I’m happy, my son is happy.

Nine years on, we don’t talk about it.

I stopped being angry — but then sorrow struck in earnest.

I miss him every day.

I miss his brutal wit, the way he could fix anything, instantly make me feel better, but mostly I miss the happy, innocent self I inhabited before he died.

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I will always blame myself.

And I will always miss him.