Another one of those crazy "I'm all fucked up" letters - from me to him - I HOPE I didn't send these, but have a nasty feeling that he did not entirely escape the horrid self-negating tirades with which I plagued the husbands I actually did marry.

As I later figured out - I fought the fight I should have had with my father using them as substitutes - and this went on until sometime in my mid-thirties. By that time, I was divorcing the second husband, but I don't think I actually found a center for myself until 10 years later. Even now, I have those moments - but I banish them rather quickly. Life goes on.

Here, I hint that perhaps there is reason for him to be jealous, and talk about a trip I made to the University of Illinois and then on down to the Southern Illinois University with my roommate and two of her friends. Two guy friends. I tell him that I am very tired of "love in the front seat of a car," which was what, except for our time in Louisville, we were condemned to by our times - but I may also have been hinting at that trip, when I made out with one of Anne's friends in the front seat of the car on the way down south.

Did I feel guilty about that? Yes, I did. Did I want to do it? No, not really. What made me do it? Constant need for male approval and affirmation that I was sexually attractive. Did I feel good afterwards?

No.