James Dickerson, 51, used to live in Aransas Pass, but now calls Rockport home, preferring to live alone with his service dog, Crowley. The Pitbull is trained to sense when Dickerson gets too emotional or may act on a _t of rage, he sometimes _nds dif_cult to control. “When my dog goes down, I go down,” Dickerson shared, explaining Crowley will grab one of the veteran’s hands and literally force him to the ground until he cools off. The Army specialists’ wounds run deep, both physical and psychological, but he is embracing a form of recovery that’s helped and is establishing PTSD support groups across the nation to help others. He is working on opening a chapter inside the historic Rialto Theater. (Aransas Pass Progress)
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Dickerson after he was in the U.S. Army several years, trained as an M.P. (Military Police Officer), he served most of his six years with an infantry unit and is a combat veteran. James as he appeared as a young recruit, enlisting at age 17. He dropped out of high school his junior year, but would later obtain a G.E.D. He’s also a Freemason. (Courtesy: James Dickerson)
“It’s emotional,” James Dickerson freely admits trying to maintain his composure when anyone asks him to discuss his military background. The 51-year-old former M.P. (Military Police Officer) can trace his family’s service to their nation as far back as the American Revolution. His stepfather was in the U.S. Navy, a reason the Weslaco native was on the move, relocating from one state to another throughout his childhood because of the family patriarch’s frequent change of base assignments. By the time Dickerson was of age – 17, actually – he dropped out of high school in his junior year, obtained a G.E.D. within a few weeks, and with his mother’s endorsement enlisted in the U.S. Army. That decision brought him to some of the most dangerous places across the globe where he was wounded by enemy gunfire multiple times and witnessed ghastly horrors and death that give him nightmares to this day.
“I sleep maybe three hours a day,” Dickerson revealed. Though he once resided in Aransas Pass, Rockport is now home, preferring a life of isolation. His only companion is Crowley, a Pitbull trained to help him through his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). He’s trained other canines to do the same to help many others.
“When my dog goes down, I go down,” Dickerson shared, explaining Crowley will grab one of the veteran’s hands and literally force him to the ground until he cools off.
“I once spent 45 minutes on the ground at Lowes,” Dickerson said, detailing how anger boiled up inside him a time someone approached him too aggressively and his temper flared. The 150-pound Crowley opened its mouth, grabbed one of the veteran’s hands, and laid down on the cold, hard floor of the chain hardware store until James settled down. Dickerson would later admit he “misread how I was approached” and reacted inappropriately, his service dog intervening, just as he was trained to do.
The Army specialists’ wounds run deep, both physical and psychological, embracing a form of recovery that’s helped and establishing PTSD support groups across the nation to assist others, working on opening a chapter inside the historic Rialto Theater.
Dickerson is an imposing figure. It doesn’t take much guessing to figure out he was an athlete, football his game of choice as a young man. His deep voice, muscular build, and piercing eyes can prove intimidating to some. He’s licensed to carry, and does, like most Texans not so much for his own self defense but if needed, to protect other innocent lives, like responding to an active shooter incident. He spent many years in unform serving his country, fearing little. But in addition to the physical scars, he sustained in the Army there are emotional and psychological wounds deeply embedded in his soul, ones that he acknowledged may never be exorcised.
From 1991 to 1997, Specialist Dickerson was stationed in Bosnia, Kosovo, and parts of the Middle East. Crowley, laying at his feet as he talks, starts to whine. James’ eyes started to tear. The dog knows his master is heading down a dangerous road, Dickerson’s mind exposing a chapter from his past that is too frightening and overwhelming to imagine. The veteran acknowledged the cue and calmed down, pausing for a moment, like someone standing at the shore of a beach waiting for the wave motion of the sea to recede once again.
Writing has helped Dickerson grasp the vast undertaking he has accepted, knowing full well that he is not alone in this journey. Hundreds of thousands of fellow Americans who have served in the Armed Forces came home with similar symptoms, forever changed. His service dog is a conduit, a tool to assist him in dealing with the demons that possess him, establishing a Facebook page where Dickerson frequently documents his experiences, calling it: Crowley Dickerson Through the Eyes of a Service Dog (https:// www.facebook.com/profile . php?id=100082826 530056&mibextid=Zb WKwL). Where Crowley becomes the voice, and James is described as his “Service Human”.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Crowley P. Dickerson, thank you so much for following my page and reading our hearts. The stories shared here are true and the daily reality of my Service Human,” an introduction on Facebook begins.
“My service human is named James Dickerson. He’s a rescue. He turned 51 in January, but he says he’s 45, Humans! I’ve been training him for about 66 months now. He still has such a long way to go. My patience with this breed runs thin at times. A dog has to do what a dog has to do, though,” the whimsical dialogue continues.
“James understands the basic commands. You know, like feed me, pet me, let me out, or it’s going to smell in here. He learns at his own pace and is very motivated by praise and food. The big guy will do almost anything for a treat,” Crowley states.
“The problem is he’s not that smart. I try and try to get through. Patience is the key I am told when training an old human. They say even the dumb ones can be taught. It may be true, but you haven’t met James. I’m pretty sure he is the reason they put instructions on sleeping bags,” the post reads.
“It was not a hard choice when it came to picking a breed. I have a thing for hanging around veterans. Well, truth be told. They all smell like old meat and socks. I really dig that! They also always have a pack mentality and are loyal to a fault. Sometimes it’s challenging dealing with these rescue humans but some dogs got to do it. Even they deserve a home. I mean you get used to cleaning up behind them, and the smell eventually!” Crowley shares.
“I just hate to see their numbers shrinking by the day. That’s why I chose this breed to be my service human. I figure maybe I can change the stigma; the Veteran has in this country. You see it’s not their fault. It’s how they are raised. They were not born mean, or violent. Their breed is commonly used for fighting, taught to be violent, then dumped on the side of the road to die. Some are beaten, bruised, and broken. Unfortunately, many of them are beyond saving. The ones that survive are many times angry, violent, and can potentially harm others or themselves. Some can be saved. It doesn’t have to be the end for all of them,” the dialogue noted, clearly the veteran’s attempt to get readers to comprehend the complexity surrounding PTSD survivors.
“Maybe if I show the world that there is another side to the Veteran. People might stop misunderstanding the breed. Maybe they will care enough to help. Maybe even rescue one themselves. These misunderstood beasts need our love, compassion, but most of all to be understood and welcomed home,” the post reads.
“Since 2005 almost 100,000 of our nation’s heroes have taken their own lives. Every day we lose more. The clock is ticking. Consider adopting a Veteran. You will never have a more loyal companion. They fought for us. Shouldn’t we fight for them? Together, we face this world. Our love for one another knows no limits. Family by choice. Companions by the Grace of God. We are not bound by leashes. We are tethered at the heart and stitched at the soul,” the introductory passage concludes.
“I get messages from people I was going to kill myself,” Dickerson revealed how the Facebook page has offered inspiration as well as intervention for veterans whose mental state has reached a precipice. By interacting with other military members who deal with PTSD and its varying effects on their lives they find hope and develop fellowship discussing issues with peers.
All the men on both side of Dickerson’s family are combat veterans.
“I never had any aspirations of doing anything else,” he admitted. But exposure to the harsh realities of battlefield engagements took its toll, entering terrain few ever returned from alive, admitting that it was kill or be killed. Dickerson is human. His mind can’t just dismiss all he’s been through. So many veterans alive today suffer the same anguish, frustrated that few understand with totality what they endure. How could they.
As far as the U.S. government is concerned, Dickerson is qualified as 100-percent disabled. With Crowley always at his side, the jacket his dog wears clearly warns the curious – don’t pet – unless the veteran tells you it’s OK.
From severe depression, to diabetes, Dickerson has his struggles. For the wellbeing of his wife and three children – a son and two daughters - he chose separation, acknowledging that his mental state was not a positive influence, worried that his extreme mood swings could prove a risk. Still, he said, they remain close, they just don’t live together.
“I mentally abused my family,” Dickerson said, repentant to this day. He’d been married 30 years when he left.
“I have a horrible anger problem still,” he admitted.
Neuropathy, the loss of feeling in some extremities, makes ambulating difficult at times. He’s lost feeling in some of his fingers.
“I don’t want to carry a cane,” James said, Crowley acting as his crutch, when needed.
Despite chronic pain, especially in his lower back, Dickerson refuses to take prescription analgesics, or psychotropic drugs that could help him with his emotional state. The only medicine he accepts is what’s needed to keep his diabetes in check.
It was just chance that Dickerson met Lulu and Steve Martin, owners of the Rialto Theater, all gathered at a Rockport coffee shop. Steve, a U.S. Air Force veteran, lost part of one leg in a horrific line of duty accident at a Texas military base. He could appreciate what James had been through, and they discussed bringing a chapter of his PTSD group, ‘Coffee with the Vets’, to downtown Aransas Pass. It’s a work in progress.
“You can’t heal PTSD,” said Dickerson, adding that the fellowship aspect, bringing veterans together with similar stories, allows them to unload. Vent. Cry. Sharing the burden helps them learn to continue living and provides the support many need to carry on.
“I’m not a therapist,” Dickerson emphasized. His role has been to serve as a catalyst. He gets these groups started and then passes on the baton to participants to keep it going.
“I’d like to have one in every town in Texas,” he said, impressed with the number of veterans who call the Lone Star state home. Hundreds live between Aransas Pass, Ingleside, and Ingleside on the Bay.
There is no money that changes hands. He won’t accept it. Dickerson never sought non-profit status either and has no intentions of doing so, believing too many mishandled funds, diverting them from the cause most deserving of the support.
Since he started ‘Coffee with the Vets’ seven years ago, Dickerson believed that 150 affiliate chapters have been established nationwide.
There’s no timeline when or even if the Rialto chapter will open, but the Martin’s told the newspaper they firmly back Dickerson’s efforts, especially given Steve’s veteran status.
Other groups being formed in Aransas Pass are already designed to offer some level of services or relief for PTSD sufferers, like the established Redford Ranch Foundation and the Wellness Center being developed by U.S. Marine Corps veteran, Doug Gresenz, someone Dickerson didn’t know and was unfamiliar with his objectives but hoped to soon connect and collaborate.
“This isn’t about me,” Dickerson stressed, not wanting to be in the spotlight about the issue. He’s happy to lay the foundations but prefers to stay on the sidelines after that.
“I’m a recluse,” he acknowledged, whose dream is to have a boat and sail away somewhere leaving everyone behind. It would be just him and his dog.
“It’s the only time my mind slows down,” he started to explain. “I’m always mad, thinking, who’s going to hurt me next. I have a hard time trusting people.”
The state of mind Dickerson accepts others find incomprehensible.
“Loneliness is the darkest place you can ever dwell,” Dickerson admitted. But, for now, it’s the only place he’s found peace, with Crowley the only constant.
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