I hate my husband – he’s a selfish, hairy 35-year-old toddler & I’d be relieved if he cheated so I could outsource sex

THE phrase ‘normal marital hatred’ was coined by A-lister therapist Terry Real to sum up moments of domestic irritation that every marriage suffers from.

But one woman confesses that her annoyance towards her husband of 16 years has gone well beyond that.

In a searingly honest confession, cleaner and mum-of-two Natalie, 45, says her feelings border on hatred…

If my husband Dan, 49, ever looked through the WhatsApp messages between me and my best friend, Sarah, he’d be worried for his life such are the numerous references to joint graves for our spouses.

Now I don’t actually wish him dead – but that’s our short hand way of illustrating how loathsome our spouses can be.

I freely admit that on many occasions, I hate my husband.

On others, I view him as a slightly irritating colleague not pulling their weight, sometimes as a friend.

It’s rare that I see him as someone I still love and would walk up the aisle to marry again.

I know my best friend feels the same way.

Other friends sigh and roll their eyes at the mention of their husbands and I know of only three couples who I’d still describe as madly in love.

I think I stopped feeling madly in love when my first daughter, Clare, was born.

My husband spent the large proportion of my two-day painful labour, complaining that he was too hot, sighing, and looking at his watch – as if I wasn’t really up to the job.

Considering I didn’t feel up to it, I’d have rather liked someone by my side encouraging me when I felt so vulnerable.

And he didn’t step up to the plate once she’d arrived.

She was a very loud baby, who refused to sleep.

He was “too tired” after work to help me out in the evenings and “needed his sleep” during the endless crying at night so decamped to the spare room.

At the weekends he had to “go cycling.”

I was basically a single mum, with one very gorgeous but
unsettled baby, and a large, hairy 35-year-old toddler, demanding attention, food, and sympathy for how tired he was.

That’s when I started to lose respect for him.

But I still loved him – enough to have a second baby with him two years later.

To be fair, by then he’d bonded with Clare – once she stopped shrieking and started cooing and saying “dadada” he was besotted.

He suddenly didn’t need to go on massive bicycle rides every
weekend.

And when our son James arrived he was brilliant – far more hands on, probably because James didn’t suffer from the dreaded colic and slept through serenely from about eight weeks old.

But I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten those first few difficult months with Clare.

If we were rich, I could certainly put up with him moving into the house next door, complete with his crunching, snoring, and dirty socks

And it stopped my unconditional love for my husband.

I didn’t trust that we’d always be a team and I didn’t feel “safe” in the knowledge that he had my back.

I felt that he’d run away if the going got tough.

Before Clare, who’s now 14, started primary school, I happily muddled through with him, occasionally feeling a pang of irritation at the dirty socks left on the bathroom floor.

But as they got older and he “couldn’t do children’s parties” and despite working in IT, apparently couldn’t fathom how to access the school calendar to find out term dates and parents evenings, the irritation levels grew and grew.

Now, I have taken on the entire mental load, from when we can go away on holiday, to what colour socks the children wear, and when his mother’s birthday is.

If he cheated on me I’d a) understand and b)
feel relieved it was a job that I could out source.

I’m sure I should sit down and talk about it with him – but he would pay lip service to my conversation for a week or so and then go back to being a “man-child.”

And the flip side is I suspect he hates me too – after all I constantly nag, sigh, or pretend I can’t hear him.

It’s not as if he’s getting much joy in the bedroom because I’m either too resentful or genuinely too tired.

Honestly if he cheated on me I’d a) understand and b) feel relieved it was a job that I could out source.

We did try counselling for a while – but it was a very expensive way of ensuring we were both on best behaviour so neither told tales on the other one to the counsellor.

When we stopped, our behaviour patterns reverted, him selfish, me boring and seething.

When he comes home tonight to our four bedroom house in Suffolk, I can tell you the first thing he will do is ask what’s for dinner, then take something out of the fridge and eat noisily, switching on a boring football match.

I can imagine people asking why we stay together.

Well, I sort of love him sometimes, he still makes me laugh, we can’t afford to run two houses and we have two gorgeous children
whose lives I have no desire to disrupt.

And I know I’m far from alone in having these reasons.

Equally I’m not convinced many men are much better.

A very good friend’s husband died two years ago, I asked her how she was feeling and she told me “guilty” then added: “I shouldn’t feel such a happy sense of freedom.”

Now as I said before, I don’t wish my husband dead, my children would be devastated because they think he’s incredible and I’d miss him.

But if we were rich, I could certainly put up with him moving into the house next door, complete with his crunching, snoring, and
dirty socks.

And then I could enjoy not feeling my skin itch with irritation at his presence.

• All names have been changed