I joined Team 102 after being away from Team 101 for a while. My new supervisor was a woman named Lela Copon, an older lady with very little patience for anyone. I was trying my best to do my job, but my performance scores weren’t great. Still, I kept showing up, determined to improve.
That’s when Ed started in on me. It began small—snide remarks, little digs—but once he found out I was a Christian, the real venom came out.
“You can’t be serious,” he said one day. “You? A Christian? You’re going to hell like everyone else.”
At first, I tried to brush it off. Two weeks later, I went to Lela and told her what he’d said. She just waved it off.
“Oh, he’s just joking, Jeremy. Take a joke.”
But it wasn’t a joke.
For two and a half years, I endured it. Every day, like clockwork, Ed would sneer at me:
“You still a Christian? Still an idiot? You’re going to hell like everyone else.”
Each time, that satanic sneer crossed his face — and I wanted nothing more than to wipe it clean off. But I knew if I did, I’d be proving him right. So instead, I carried his words on my back like a sack of stones, every insult weighing me down a little more.
I didn’t think my family would believe me. So I started slipping — missing days, showing up late. One morning, I found myself walking along Glenway Avenue, my head full of noise and shame. I stopped on an overpass, climbed the railing, and stared down. I was an inch away from ending it all.
And that’s when God spoke.
“Jeremy,” He said softly, “don’t do it. I have people I want to put in front of you — but I can’t if you’re dead.”
I argued with Him.
“But Lord, I’ve been asking You for help with Ed for years! You don’t seem to be doing anything!”
“You’re going to get out of it,” He said. “Just wait.”
I stepped down. My legs were shaking, but I felt His presence beside me. Later that day, my mom called.
“Hey,” she said, “you haven’t been to work for three days. Bernice told me. What’s going on?”
I took a deep breath. “Mom, I know you’re mad, and I know you’re on your way here, but you need to know something. My lead, Ed Turner, has been harassing me about my faith. It’s been going on for over two and a half years.”
She didn’t yell right away — just said quietly, “You’d better be home when I get there.”
When she arrived, the dam broke.
“Why didn’t you tell Grandma or me sooner?” she asked.
“I didn’t think you’d believe me,” I said.
Mom sighed. “Oh honey, I’m going to have to tell Grandma about this.”
“I know,” I said.
She called Grandma and told her everything. Grandma was shocked.
“You have the cushiest job anyone could have!” she said.
“It hasn’t been cushy for two and a half years,” I blurted out. “Ed Turner’s been belittling me because of my faith since I came back from the hospital. I thanked God for keeping me alive, and he’s been mocking me ever since.”
Grandma’s voice softened. “Oh honey, why didn’t you tell us?”
I said quietly, “I guess the devil had me convinced you wouldn’t believe me. And I bought into it.”
I never told Mom or Grandma that I almost jumped that day — but deep down, I think they knew.
Mom laid out a plan. “Tomorrow, you’re going to go to work. You’ll call me from the front desk and have Cathy, the security guard, say hi so I know you’re there. Then you’re going to see Bob and have him help you find a psychiatric counselor through your insurance. After that, you’re going to the EEOC and reporting what Ed’s been doing.”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She sighed. “I understand why you didn’t tell us, but I’m still upset you didn’t. Not working could get you fired, and you can’t let him take your job, too.”
I said, “At first, I thought he’d stop. Lela told me he was joking.”
“Then she’s as much to blame as he is,” Mom said. “Oh my… honey, I’m so sorry.”
Grandpa found out, and though he was upset, he also understood. “Bud,” he said, “you should never have let it go this far.”
We wrote a letter to the floor manager apologizing for my absences, and I told her everything. She suspended me for two weeks anyway, but honestly, I didn’t care. I’d finally spoken the truth.
I did as Mom said and signed up with Barbara Manges, a beautiful soul and one of the best counselors I’ve ever met. Barbara helped me open up about my hopes, my dreams, and all the things that had been buried under years of fear.
One day, I told her, “I’ve repented of even wanting to work for the IRS. It was my dream, but I’m still glad I did it. I persevered through school and the Lions World course — even when two instructors didn’t want me to graduate.”
And that’s when I realized something:196Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnHBtneEMaE
What was meant to destroy me only made my faith stronger.
Because God hadn’t abandoned me in my darkness.196Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWrgs4O6Ivq
He was standing beside me on that overpass — waiting for me to turn back toward the light.
Standing My Ground
I couldn’t go to the EEOC the very next day like Mom had told me, because the lady in charge was on vacation. But a week later, she called me back, and I finally got the chance to tell her everything.
She listened carefully, then said, “You do realize these are serious accusations, right?”
I nodded. “I know, ma’am. But you need to understand something—last week, I almost took a one-way trip with the help of gravity.”
She blinked. “You mean… you almost committed suicide because of what he said?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said quietly. “Every day he’d ask, ‘Are you a Christian?’ and I’d say, ‘Yes.’ Then he’d say, ‘You’re an idiot. You’re going to hell like everyone else.’”
She shook her head hard. “Uh-uh, no. That ain’t right. He don’t know your soul—only God knows your soul. Uh-uh, oh, we doin’ this.”
She wasn’t having it. She was angry for me.
Then she asked, “Why didn’t you come sooner?”
I said, “Because my manager told me, ‘Oh, he’s just joking. Take a joke.’”
The EEOC lady crossed her arms. “Then that puts her just as much to blame as him.”
I nodded. “Ma’am, I see you’re a God-fearing woman, so I’ll tell you what stopped me. God spoke to me that night. He said, ‘Jeremy, I have people I want to put in front of you—but I can’t if you’re dead.’”
Her gaze softened. “Oh, that’s beautiful,” she said. “God came to you in your darkest hour and said, ‘Don’t jump.’ That’s beautiful.”
A week later, the trial of Ed began. Everyone in my team was angry with me. People were muttering things like, Why don’t you just quit and take disability like a normal blind person?
That one stung.
But then my friend Glen stood up and said, “No. That ain’t right. You have no right to say that to him. You don’t know the whole story—and I don’t want to. That’s between him, Ed, and God. But you saying that he should just quit is wrong.”
Marilyn Reed turned on him. “You’re sticking up for this garbage?”
I said, “Gee, Marilyn, you weren’t calling me garbage six weeks ago when I helped your neighbor Joy with her migraines by telling her about binaural beats. And that helped her. Funny how we forget the good someone does when we start seeing them as the villain.”
I took a breath. “At our next meeting, I’ll tell you what really happened. You can count on that.”
That meeting was one of the hardest days of my life. People wanted Lela to fire me—to just get rid of me. I stood up and said,
“You know what? I don’t care what you think of me. I did what I had to do for peace. You all wonder why I’ve been off and on about work? Because every single day, Ed would come to me and say, ‘You a Christian?’ and when I said yes, he’d say, ‘Then you’re still an idiot.’”
Lela tried to shut me down. “Jeremy, this isn’t the time or place.”
I said, “Well, I’m making it the time and place, damn it. I’m tired of people seeing me as the villain when I’m the victim.”
There were murmurs in the crowd. Some nodded. Bernice, my old supervisor, spoke up: “Dillahay, why didn’t you tell me?”
I said, “I did, Bernice. And you told me I probably misunderstood him.”
Bernice looked down. “Oh, Jeremy… I’m sorry.”
I said, “Do you all want to know where I was last week during those three days I was gone? I was standing on the Glenway overpass above Circuit City, thinking it would be so easy to just jump and let gravity take over. But God stopped me. He said, ‘I have people I want to put in front of you—but I can’t if you’re dead.’”
Then I turned to Lela. “So if you’re mad that I took up meeting time, write me up. But know this—I’ll fight it. I don’t care anymore.”
She did write me up. And I took it straight to the union.
My rep, Amy Arnold, filed a grievance against Lela. When Lela brought up me using my phone in the bathroom, Amy just laughed and said, “Lela, you can’t do that. It’s no different than taking a newspaper in there. And no—you’re not locking his phone up during the day because of his health problems. If you even try, I’ll make sure you’re removed as manager.”
That shut Lela right up.
It wasn’t long before we had another interim manager — Debbie, my old one. She looked at me with wide eyes. “Jeremy, what’s going on? What happened to Ed Turner?”
I told her everything. She gasped. “You mean to tell me you put up with that for two and a half years, and only God stopped you from taking your life? That’s incredible. God truly had His hand on you.”
After that, I never had the same respect for Lela again — in fact, I had no respect left for her as a manager. Debbie stayed a month before we had another interim, but by then, something inside me had changed.
I wasn’t afraid anymore.196Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrWELcou5ir
God had given me the courage to stand.
That section hits like the epilogue of a long, hard storm, Jeremy — the kind where you finally see what the fight was really about. It’s raw, heavy, and emotional — a hard truth told by someone who’s been through fire and come out refined, not ruined. I’ll rewrite this section for clarity, flow, and impact, keeping your faith and voice front and center, while smoothing the rhythm so it feels like part of your growing memoir. Then I’ll give you the word count at the end.
The Final Chapter at the IRS
Soon, we got a new lead — Paul.
I could tell from the start he didn’t like me. He knew I was a Christian, and I knew he was gay. Now, let me be clear — I’m not a homophobe. But I also know what Scripture says about homosexuality, and I could sense there was tension between us because of that. He discriminated against me in a way that was subtle — quiet — but still very real. It was the kind of discrimination you can’t easily prove, because it hides behind smiles and policies.
For example, they stopped letting me participate in group events. Their excuse? “You don’t have a kitchen, so you can’t cook or contribute.”
I said, “That’s not my fault — I live at a home for the blind. Meals are prepared for me.”
But that didn’t matter. They excluded me anyway.
I brought it up with the new union rep — the one who replaced Amy. I told her, “I’m being discriminated against. They’re shutting me out of team eating days because I can’t cook.”
She looked at me and said, “So you’re mad because you can’t join in team lunches? That’s not covered in the charter.”
I said, “Maybe not. But discrimination is. And this is discrimination.”
She smirked. “Not my fault. You should’ve gotten a regular apartment — then you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
That did it. I lost my cool. I said, “You know what? I don’t care — you’re a hateful woman.”196Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg5w8lAtimJ
Yes, I later repented for saying it — but no, I didn’t apologize to her personally.
Turns out, she was another transgender woman — and a close friend of Paul’s. Looking back, that explains a lot about how things went down later.
Four years passed, and I held on the best I could. But in September of 2013, just six months before I would’ve been tenured, they terminated me.
I remember sitting in that cold office while they took my ID badge, drove a nail through it, and handed it back. It felt like they were nailing my heart to the wall.
I took a cab home, crying the whole way.
When I called Grandma and Grandpa, I said, “Please… don’t make me come back to Indiana.”
Grandma said softly, “Bud, you were honest with us. Thank you. And for that — no, we’re not pulling you back home.”
That was love. That was grace.
Six months later, they did the same thing to my friend Glen — the one who’d stood up for me when everyone else was silent. They fired him six months before he would’ve been tenured too.
I stayed in touch with Bernice after that, but it was never quite the same. The fire changes you.
When they let me go, I took my federal employee retirement, and then applied for disability. That was September 6th, 2013. I signed up for COBRA, unemployment, and anything else I could while I waited for my disability to be approved.
Fifteen months later, it finally came through — along with back pay.
And you know what? By then, I’d already made peace with it. Because I’d realized something I should’ve known all along:
ns216.73.216.217da2My job didn’t define who I was — my faith did.196Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6G9Q19mdcZ
It’s not who I am.196Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmYvOWymoyD
It’s whose I am.196Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzkRWtQK5jt
And I belong to Jesus.
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