My first full-length play was about, in part, a man who was terrified he was an abuser. Today I found out I was writing about myself.

I was tired. I can keep telling myself that; I was tired, so was D, and E is sick and had been screaming all morning. I can keep telling myself that over and over but it will make no difference.

The first thing I did was whack myself upside the head, repeatedly, with a children's book. Just to hurt myself so I wouldn't hurt anyone else.

Then about an hour later, I put E down (she was screaming), curled into a ball, and screamed myself.

When I fixed D lunch (we had to hurry, because K had just called; she's sick, too, and asked to be picked up from work), I gave him milk, which he pushed away. A tiny bit of it spilled. A tiny bit! Nonetheless I screamed at him. "HEY!" A long, drawn out HEY right at his face. I breathed. Caught hold of myself. Apologized and kissed his forehead and told him I loved him.

This is just a minute later, now. E is screaming again. I asked D to please eat his lunch. He refused. And something snapped inside me.

I grabbed the chair next to his and pulled it out from under the table. The table swiveled a bit. It may have actually hit him in the chest or it may have simply stopped as it reached him. . . I'm not sure how much force it had. I didn't notice, I was too busy screaming "SON OF A BITCH! DUMB SHIT!" I don't know who I was addressing this to. Not D. Maybe myself. I threw the chair into the corner, where it hit the closet door and knocked it off its hinges.

I got a hold of myself. D was crying and looking at me with abject terror. Like I was a monster. I was a monster. I am a monster.

My hands were shaking. I pulled the table away from him. There was a little red mark under his shirt, but it didn't look like a bruise. He was okay. E was quiet, fascinated.

I don't think I will ever forget D's face. And he will probably never forget mine. This is one of the moments that defines a child's worldview, like when my own father smashed a dinner plate directly in front of me simply because he couldn't cook the french fries correctly. That image has come back to me again and again and I'm sure today will come back to D, unless, of course, I do something even worse.

I felt like turning myself in to the police or getting myself committed. I'm sick. I'm wrong. I will hurt someone unless someone stops me. I feel like I need to leave them all because I don't want to hurt them, ever; I love them too much.

What am I?

Those of you who have heard my self-loathing before: now do you believe me? Do you understand that I wasn't full of shit when I called myself evil, twisted, and (more prosaically) a putz? I can't stand what I've done. I can barely live with it. How will I survive this? I have to. I have to work it out. But how will I ever regain their trust?

I wish this were a scene out of my stupid novel.