No agency has encountered as much controversy, or hatred, as that of CPS/DFS. The courts are rigged, the families destroyed, and the countless children who go missing are just a few of the problems within these agencies. But what of the children who grew up? What stories could they tell? While ‘War on Corruption’ does not cover individual cases, we are going to share one story from a survivor; a case that CPS tried, with success, to cover up. In this article, I am going to share the personal story of what my siblings and I endured as a direct result of the Oklahoma CPS system.
The nightmare begins
The day was nothing special, in fact, it was like any other day. My parents were in the process of remodeling the bedroom while we did what every child does, which included running around the house and playing. Out of nowhere, a woman stood outside, with police, knocking on the front door. She introduced herself as Deborah McCullah, a caseworker for the Pottowatomi county CPS department.
The confusion on my parents’ faces was obvious, as was the fear. The caseworker stated that they had gotten a report and needed to look around the house to ensure it was safe. At the end, she recommended removal, but the officers disagreed. She would return the following day, with different officers, and our nightmare was set into motion.
With the police, the caseworker proceeded to walk us to the car. Although we were in tears, at no point can I recall her displaying any form of compassion. For her, it was purely sick enjoyment. She then gave my parents a court-date, which would ultimately be false. After that, we rode with this stange, and evil woman, to the courthouse.
There was a family who lived across the street. Within that family was the neighborhood gossip. In other words, she was in everybody’s business. When we were abducted, she had overheard the caseworker instruct the police to take us to the courthouse for court. Once we were gone, our neighbor had informed our parents.
Prior to being placed into a foster family, the three of us were interviewed. They didn’t interview my fourth sibling because she was an infant. The interviews asked how often our parents had hurt us, abused us, and even asked how often my father would molest us. The problem with their interview was simply this: none of these things had ever taken place. When the interview process failed, the caseworker than began her attempt to brainwash us. I recall being told that I needed to tell the judge that we had been abused. She elaborated by telling me that if I did, we would be allowed to go back home, a promise she had no intention of keeping for words I would never say.
A house of no hope
After the court, we would spend the following week in a shelter. I remember loving this place as it had all sorts of toys, gaming systems, and even had an outside area. While I did like it there, I would spend my time outside, looking for ways to which I could climb their fence and run; I would never have that chance.
After a week, we were introduced to Jesse and Stan, the foster parents who would ultimately make our lives a true hell. Initially, they appeared to be kind, but that was a cover for the monsters inside. We rode with them to their house, they showed us to our rooms, and we had dinner with their family. This first night would be the only time we would ever see any form of kindness from them.
the abuse started off minor, in comparason to what would ultimately unfold. The father started out with sitting me in a chair, located in a cold garage. He would tie my arms to it, before placing underwear, which was filled with feces, on my head. It was here that I would spend most of my time outside of school. As the months progressed, so did the abuse.
I was sitting on their couch, watching television, after school. Out of nowhere, I felt a hand grab my hair and proceeded to yank me up. Naturally, I attempted to break free but I was simply to weak to do so. After being forced into the restroom, forced to bend over their tub, I felt my pants go down. I recall trying to look behind me, only for my head to be forced to look at the bottom of the tub…and then severe pain. This would become a near daily ritual.
The abuse would continue to intensify, entering the domain of torture. With the sodomy came being burned with hot water, forced to sleep outside in the cold, and even being water-boarded. On several occassions, I would be held down on the garage floor by one of their biological kids. The foster dad would get a wet rag and simply allow the water to drip onto my head. As with all of the previous abuses, this would also become a sort of ritual. Somehow, the foster parents justified their abuse by claimimg that I deserved it.
Being made aware of the torture and abuse, my parents tried to fight back. They made CPS aware of the situation. However, the agency that claims to protect children, simply stated that I was lying out of retaliation for being taken. As a result of their “protection,” I would be forced to live with my abusers as CPS began work to cover it up. CPS took the only step they could, at that time, to cover up the abuse. Within days of me reporting it to my parents, the agency would have me sent to a psychiatric hospital. With that act, they could then discredit any claim I had made.
Eventually my siblings and I were returned home, the abusive foster family out of our lives. CPS, on the other hand, contimued to prey over my family, an act they still do. The siblings who remembered our time in this human trafficking ring with me, were left with an abundant array of trauma, many to which I still deal with to this day.
As I got older, I learned to accept that these traumas were now apart of who I am. However, I would not accept that these traumas made me a victim. Instead, I sought out to become the survivor, to expose this system for what it truly is, and just maybe, save another innocent child from enduring the same traumas I had suffered. While CPS continues to deny my claims. I took comfort in knowing that a couple of my siblings were old enough to recall the abuse. With that confirmation, I began my war.