I Was Mauled by Pit Bulls as a Child

I was eight years old; a little third-grader. It was December 5, 2007, and just a regular day. Neighborhood bullies were chasing me after school, so I was a little late arriving home.

It was snowing. I loved the snow. I kind of still do, even though it gives me nightmares now.

We had two pit bull dogs. One, the female, was our family's pet. The other, a male, belonged to my dad's friend. My dad was watching the dog for a few months.

I entered through the back gate, and the male dog left the yard. I knew how angry my dad could get when dogs escaped. So I convinced the dog to come back in. I closed the gate and slipped on ice.

The male pit bull attacked.

He mauled me. He couldn't rip through my leather jacket, so my face took all the damage. It was a tug-of-war between him and our girl dog. She tried her best to pull me to safety, while he tried to pull me to the garage, where I knew I would die.

I was screaming "stop" the whole time. I felt in my soul that he was going to kill me, but I had no control over it.

The attack lasted around two minutes. In that time, I lost 80 percent of my face, both ears, my entire nose, my eyelids, and my left eye. It only ended when my dad came outside to see where I was.

I thank God it was snowy and icy that day. It kept me from bleeding out.

My dad rushed me into the house where my mom was waiting on me. He screamed at her to call the ambulance, which came within a few minutes.

My mom was dealing with the dogs, and also trying to find pieces of me, like my ears, so surgeons could try to reattach them. Animal control decided to euthanize the pit bulls because they had consumed too much human blood and flesh.

I was alert and talking on the way to the hospital, but not able to move. I remember feeling so cold.

At the hospital, doctors and surgeons spent 26 hours saving my life, cauterizing veins and arteries. After my surgery, they put me into a medically induced coma while trying to stabilize my condition.

The comas allowed me to go through a lot of physically painful surgeries—taking skin and muscle and bone from different parts of my body to restructure my face—without having to deal with the mental implications at the same time. I was having surgeries every other day. It was a big task.

Doctors decided to wake me up on my mom's birthday; January 8, 2008. I woke up next to my mom smiling at me. She was screaming and yelling: "He's awake! He's finally awake!"

They didn't know what my mental state would be. All the CT scans said my brain was fine, but they didn't know if I had endured any trauma. They gave me a lot of tests and they found out I was OK; just a curious kid trying to figure things out.

I didn't remember the accident at all, so I didn't have PTSD yet or the nightmares. I didn't know what was going on. I just knew that I couldn't walk, talk, write, and I was in this bed.

That freaked me out. I also didn't know that I was asleep for a month. Over the following days as they were assessing any kind of damage to my cognitive abilities, my brain was slowly catching up with what was going on.

They started teaching me how to talk and write again. At first, we played charades because not being able to use my facial muscles for over 30 days had deteriorated a lot of them, so talking was very hard.

I cried a lot. There was so much pain and confusion.

As I was recovering, a child psychiatrist would come and visit me. We would do art therapy, and she asked me if I remembered anything or if something was bothering me.

I said no, and that I just wanted to play with my toys. I was connected to all these tubes and machines, and I wasn't allowed to look at myself in the mirror, which didn't bother me at the time.

Then, one night, I had so many headaches and nightmares. In the morning, I had more terrible headaches. Everything that happened came back to me.

At that time, no one knew the story. Everyone was told not to talk about the accident until I remembered it. When I finally did, I was devastated. I was terrified of dogs. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the accident.

A day or so later, my mom got the whole family together in one hospital room with the staff, and they listened to me retell the story; all the gruesome details from start to finish.

Those three months in the hospital were the hardest time of my life. But telling everyone what had happened and seeing the look on their faces—that was extremely hard.

At first, they were all smiling and supporting me. By the time I had finished, there were so many tears and hugs. They had known I went through a lot, but not the full story. It broke their hearts.

It was hard to know where to go from there. I remembered getting my face ripped off and the pieces and everything. And I still see it to this day; I see it as if it happened yesterday. I remember my mum being there holding me and letting me know that I was safe.

I was scared it was going to happen again. Every night, I was having nightmares. They all tried their hardest to comfort me and give me the best support, and the space to talk when I felt comfortable.

They were a very supportive team and family. We just banned everything that had a dog in it. I couldn't watch anything. Learning how to walk, talk, and write again was mentally challenging. But I'm thankful that my mom was there every step of the way.

I couldn't comprehend that I didn't have ears. I was in a children's playroom in the hospital where kids could hang out as patients. I was making some beaded necklaces, and there was this one kid who came up to me and asked: "Why don't you have ears?"

At that time, they still had never shown me a mirror.

I was surprised. I don't have ears?

I felt the sides of my head. I cried and flipped out. My mom had to take me back to my room. When I got there, I cried and said I didn't ever want to leave that room again because I don't have ears, and if I don't have ears how am I supposed to wear glasses?

Everyone started laughing, and I said: "That ain't funny! What if I need to wear glasses?"

My doctor came in and said he was going to build me some ears. And that was it. I was set. I was happy about that. You want to make me some ears? Deal. I stopped crying after that. I was OK.

He kept that promise. I got my ears through a doctor he knew.

I asked them if I could finally see myself in the mirror. Everyone looked at each other, and just agreed. They brought me this tiny mirror and I was able to check myself out. I realized I was blind on the left side.

I asked: "Is my eye still in there?"

They said yes, and that maybe when technology improves, I can use it.

(I still have it to this day. I haven't asked to get it removed. I trust God to let me know when the technology is right. I could develop a new eyelid for that side and have a cornea transplant to get the eye working.)

I was shocked and crying. They went over this plan of all these different surgeries I was going to have to help me get back to normal.

This is where anger set in. I was asking: Why did this have to happen to me? Why do I have to go through all of this? I'm just eight years old. Why me? Why now? I miss school, I miss being at home, I miss my mom's meals, I miss seeing my brother.

I just wanted everything to go back to being normal.

My mom sat there and said: "I'm sorry you have to go through this, but I promise that you won't go through this alone. Know that I'll always be here every step of the way."

My doctor interjected and went over another game plan for getting me back to the life I once had.

I must have stared in that mirror for a long time; maybe ten or fifteen minutes. I remembered who I used to look like. I was a totally different person. Even the shapes of things were different, because I didn't have muscles or veins, so things were flat.

I threw the mirror on the ground.

I was put on a kind of watch where I couldn't be exposed to photos of previous me or current me, and to make sure I stayed away from mirrors. I was pretty destructive. I saw a photo of me and I ripped it up. It was the only copy.

Back then, I could smile and it wouldn't look like I was. That upset me. It has taken me years and a hard journey to be able to smile. My smile isn't perfect, but it's perfect for me.

When I was finally able to leave the hospital for the first time, which was March 7, 2008, I was scared that another dog attack would happen. If I heard barks, it triggered me. I would freeze.

It was a blessing to always have someone there to hug me—and let me know it's OK, you're safe. That's so important for anyone going through any kind of traumatic experience—let them know they're safe now.

We don't have pit bulls anymore. But I don't hate those dogs. I can't hate something that God gave life to.

When I finally fully learned how to walk again, I was so happy. I thought it would never come.

At home, I got to be a kid again. I couldn't go to school, though, and I was homeschooled. I had surgeries every single month or every few weeks, and there was a serious risk of infection, which I had to avoid.

I studied at the kitchen table for five years, from 8am to 2pm, reading books, encyclopedias, novels, mystery books, geometry and algebra, science—but I wasn't allowed to have that many friends growing up because I was prone to infections.

I was really sad. I used to stare out the window at the kids on the block having fun, wishing I could be like them. That's when I really started to hate what I was going through.

My mom bought me some rose bushes. She said since you can't have friends, these roses can be your friends. So they were when I was recovering from surgery. I would just sit outside and take care of my roses.

In the span of five years, from my accident to when I was a freshman in high school, I had roughly 55 surgeries that left me with scars all over my body.

When I first left the hospital and experienced public life again, it was really hard to adjust. Even to this day, I have a lot of anxiety about it. There have been so many visceral reactions from people, or name-calling, like "monster" and "zombie child", or pulling their kids away from me.

People have tried to hit me or hurt me. I've been spat on. I've been through a lot.

It was hard to be in public, especially back then. I was going through a lot of surgery so I looked entirely different than I do now. I was glad to have my mom there because she was going through it with me. I had to hold her back because she would try to fight people. I don't blame her.

Going to high school was hard. It was the first time of me being around students in a classroom setting in five years. I didn't go to prom in high school because I was tortured by my peers. High school was hell for me. A lot of people treated me differently. It was miserable.

That's where depression started to set in with suicidal thoughts. If it wasn't for my mom, photography, and counseling, I would not be here today. I would have taken my life when I was 16. I felt like I wasn't safe anywhere. I have PTSD.

What has saved my life and what has got me through a lot of it is the sheer motivation to create art. That is what's been keeping me alive this whole time. And I have friends now, a lot of them internationally, but some in Chicago too.

I went to school for photography, and now I'm into fashion. In high school, I was using Photoshop to help express myself in a way that I couldn't with words, and have conversations that were otherwise too difficult.

I have been through hell. People can be so horrible. But I take those rocks thrown at me, I put a little soil on top, plant a seed, and turn it into a rose. I gift that rose to someone else; I give life and hope into their heart.

All of that pain turns into something positive for me.

I'm focused on my brand, Admire Wear. It's a love-based lifestyle community that was born from me recovering from my second suicide attempt, and understanding how important words are; how they can help us, but also tear us down.

I have been through enough hurt and trauma from people that have torn me down. I wanted to have words that could help lift me up. That could help lift someone else up. And by creating affirmations and using motivational videos and so much more, I've been able to help save thousands of people.

Help them to find purpose and to see that tomorrow is worth fighting for. Help them love themselves on days when they may not feel loved, or alone, or isolated, or judged. The clothing and the videos and products allow them to know that their presence in this world matters.

I won't give up on my mission to do that.

I'm going to have my sixty-second surgery in March. It'll be a four-day procedure. In the past, those days of surgery could last for 18 hours. My recovery is going to be no less than 90 days.

I'll be having three to four surgeries in 2024, so most of the year will be spent in recovery. It's bittersweet. I'm excited to have a better quality of life, even though I'll have to put my life on pause for a year.

I won't be able to make clothing for a long time while I recover. But I hope to get back to Admire Wear fully as soon as I can. I'll still be producing small things, like tote bags and coffee cups, as well as making videos and podcasts.

I'm so proud of the community we have built. It means the world to me, and my story is far from over.

One question I'm asked a lot is: Would I change my life and go back to being the little boy I was?

Here's the truth: He's still here.

That little boy never left, and we love each other.

Joshua Dixon is the survivor of a childhood pit bull attack. He is the creator of Admire Wear, a love-based lifestyle brand born from his experiences.

All views expressed are the author's own.

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