I'm on the floor of the bathroom with my fingers in my ears. I'm not sure it was even necessary as I wouldn't be able to hear the cries of my child over the cries of my own. I'm crying so hard that my body has started to shake with exhaustion, and I'm sweaty from the exertion.
In the other room Casey screams from his car seat that I ripped from the car to buckle him in because I did not know what else to do. He's safe. Safe from himself, and so much worse, safe from me.
I hit him. I hit my six-year-old autistic son.