I think I've met my very first personal Taboo.

I have a burning in my stomach. Something so vile and difficult that I cannot hardly put it into words. In fact, this, I gather, is true for society as a whole. Society has a burning in its stomach.

I've been reading up on the subject. At least 85% of the cases are domestic – meaning the perpetrator is a family member or someone known to the family or the victim. Someone in a position of trust in regards to the victim. The reason the statistics are a little vague is that it's suspected that domestic cases are under-reported compared to stranger cases. But this is not what causes the burning sensation. It's the statistic within this statistic and more so the reality behind these statistics.

The emotional abuse or neglect – mother and father are just as likely to be perpetrators. In fact, mothers are more likely to abuse or neglect a child. Having said that, the abusive mothers are often single mothers (though this is not a rule!) and the father who isn't there to stop the abuse or neglect isn't held responsible, so slightly misgiving statistic (but then, aren't they all).

Physical abuse – same story – mothers and fathers (women and men) are approximately equally likely to physically abuse their children or children in their care.

Ah, but surely sexual abuse is perpetrated mainly by men – by fathers or brothers or uncles, neh? Neh... it's about 50/50... Fifty/fifty. Equal. Mother is almost as likely to abuse her daughter or son or someone in her care as is father.

Let me just write that again. Mummy sexually abuses her daughters and her sons. She tortures and kills her children. She performs sadistic and ritual abuse on her baby, her toddler and her child. Every day, all the time and overall statistically more than any other group of adults.

It won't fit in my head. It won't fit into my view of the world. You know, men are big, brutish, strong, and potentially violent. Women are nurturing, protective, gentle, caring and non-violent. And the – few and far between – cases of women who do not fit this image of Gaia are damaged and to be pitied rather than vilified. They must be the little girls that were molested, abused and neglected themselves and because they were victims themselves we cannot really hate them.

The moment we are able to look the Bad Mother in the eye, we must also accept and face that the held view of the Gaia isn't true. It shakes our core. Mother is Good. She must be. How else can the world be. How else can we hope.

We are quick to vilify the men who do evil deeds towards children – their own or others. They are sick and evil, but they are also somehow typical male. As in, they express a potential within all men – the extreme, the edge of what it means to be a man. A man who have lost the ability to control the urges that all men have. The urge to “eat” the offspring, the urge to “procreate” and the urge to show their strength and physical superiority by victimising others.

I must apologise for being so inarticulate on this. As I said, it's still burning in my stomach, so I find it hard to put words on it. It hurts so, so much.

And why am I suddenly going on about this? Well, because my friend who killed herself – let's call her Gretel - was suspected of abusing her two little boys. I say suspected, because the case is still with the social services. She was about to go to social services court when she killed herself. But it happened. She did abuse her boys. Or at least one of them. She told me this herself. I mustn't have listened. You know, the way you don't hear when people are hurting because it demands you. The way you block out pieces of information that doesn't have a place in your puzzle.

When I spoke to her on the phone all that time ago when we moved back to Denmark, she told me that her oldest boy – he's about 6 – was voluntarily placed with foster carers. She told me this was because she couldn't handle him. That she'd beaten him and not treated him well. So, she'd gone to social services for help and he had been placed in foster care.

Three days ago I spoke to a mutual friend. Someone I've not spoken to for ages, but someone I've had indirect contact with for years – ever since I left Denmark. She's a lovely girl and both my brother and mum sees her out and about from time to time. Anyways, we spoke the other day. She'd only just learned of Gretel's death. She was shocked and contacted me to find out what had happened. I told her what I knew; that Gretel had killed herself. She said “was it because of the abuse allegations?”
I asked if she was referring to the abuse of her oldest boy – let's call him Alex.
“Well, yeah -” she said. “and – [let's call him] - Simon
“I thought that was all over and done with that case,”
“No, it was only just beginning, as far as I believe”
“but Alex had been placed in care and Gretel never mentioned anything about Simon.”
“Oh! Well, Simon's dad is my husband's best mate and he told us about stuff like wounds around Alex' anus and [other horrible stuff].”
“...”

I'm sure I've mentioned Gretel here before. She was raped and abused by her father from a very young age and when she finally told her mother - because she was scared that her father would also abuse her baby sister – her mother made her confront her father with the allegations and he then promised never to touch her again. But the mother stayed with him.

Gretel went into care and got pregnant at 15 by the son of the foster carers and was booted out. Gretel was 3 ½ years older than me, and I met her through a mutual friend when her daughter was about 6. She's was larger than life, fun, gregarious. She was very open about the abuse she suffered as a child and so, so proud of her daughter – let's call her Annette. The social workers that used to come were also impressed with her as a mother and we all thought she'd done sterling work bringing up her daughter on her own – being so young and with minimal help from anyone. And maybe she did. I don't know if she abused Annette too. I prefer to think she didn't. I prefer to think I would've realised. I babysat Annette and spent time at their house and they at mine. I'd prefer to think I would've known...

And there it is again, that burning sensation.