Most of us spend one third of our lifetime at work for 8 hours a day, 40 hours a week, 20 days a month, and 224 days a year to make money. I would consider this a nightmare if I hated my job which, I hate to admit, I do.

I not only hate, I LOATHE the company I work for and with good reason. After all, my boss was the one who wanted to slowly “phase me out” when he discovered I liked men.

But here I sit, still in my office after settling out of court for a lump sum of money, most of which will cover Drew’s hospital bills and perhaps pay for a much-needed vacation. My lawyer made the appropriate conditions that I would be able to remain at my job for another year, solidifying a contract I thought I wanted. Because, after all, I wanted to prove gay men like myself won’t stand for homophobic behavior.

But the major problem with all of this is that I now find myself walking through the medical hallways passing fellow employees, most of whom are pleased with the legal outcome but who have no idea the hell I went through personally or professionally to stay here.

I thought it would mean a lot to win, but I’m realizing that personally it really counts for very little. Yes, I slayed the vicious homophobic dragon but I also almost lost my husband Drew. And now that I’ve got enough money in the bank to not have to worry for a little while, this may be the perfect time to quit.

I know I said I wanted another year contract, but I’m realizing that was perhaps about principle--- not desire.

“I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to leave.”
The silence in Dr. Granville’s office was overpowering except for the small squeak emitting from his leather chiropractic office chair. He leaned forward, crossing his hands and resting his chin across them, hiding a faint smile.

“I see,” he muttered. “I have to tell you, I was surprised you asked to stay on here.”

“And I probably would stay if Drew didn’t need me at home.”

He remained silent.

“You can leave today, if you wish.”

“No, sir. I have a few more patients I need to finish up with. I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

He nodded in his best professional pose, clearly relieved at my decision. I suddenly visualized him talking over cigars and cocktails after work with his buddies about the faggot that first asked to stay, then decided to leave.

I reached forward and shook his hand. In his eyes, I saw an adversary who respected me but could never understand. Old school I thought to myself. He’ll never know me until perhaps years later when he discovers that one of his favorite grandsons or nieces is in fact queer.

I left his office, happy with the realization that I would no longer be spending 8 hours a day in his company. However, I would in fact be unemployed.