Dropout Chic: The Quitter's Gospel

Written by: Dalton Primeaux (@djprimeaux)

TW// mental health, anxiety, and suicidal ideations

“If the executives from ‘Swimsuit’ had founded a law school, it would have been the one I just spent nearly four years at,” I said. Renée gasped. She knew exactly what that meant.

In 2016, after years in Manhattan’s fashion publicity, I accepted an opportunity in Las Vegas at what I’ll cleverly call “Swimsuit Dot Com,” an e-commerce company I’d impulsively selected for my first in-house role. That’s where I met Renée. The office culture there was not just toxic; it was unbearable. The company faced two lawsuits for alleged inappropriate conduct, and one of its investors was implicated in multiple #MeToo allegations. I remembered one young woman was told she was going to have her vagina “sewn shut” if she didn’t use it.

But even after quitting, less than six months into my cross-country relocation, the company kept me in suspense for weeks, threatened legal action, and subjected me to derogatory language presumably to intimidate and silence me.

For a long time, I believed the universe punished quitters.

I explored these feelings even more during a recent escape back to New York in 2023, when I met Renée for breakfast, who had moved to the city two years prior. We recoiled at glimpses of our time at Swimsuit Dot Com in the rear-view mirror.

Photography by Lucy Dover (@lucy_dover_)

Ashamed, I admitted that I had landed in another toxic environment.

In 2020, amid the pandemic, I took the LSAT. My husband’s career led us reluctantly to Southern Florida, where I hoped a law school would provide refuge, and the degree would provide respect. Especially after Swimsuit, I wanted to protect myself. I wanted revenge disguised as justice. 

They were clearly wrong. I was clearly right.

That’s how this works, isn’t it? 

Law school, nonetheless, shattered my idealistic view of the legal world. It was no bastion of morality like I had hoped.

The subsequent year brought a worsening political climate in our new state, marked by increased hostility towards the LGBTQIA+ community. My initial enthusiasm waned, and the disheartening reality of the people and the system left me feeling isolated and disillusioned.

I told Renée about how students made trans jokes and professors laughed along with the class. I was given dirty looks when I would say “husband” instead of “wife.” People made derogatory comments about my clothing and nail polish. Comments about gender were painful to hear, especially as I was going through my own gender exploration.

Leaving Swimsuit caused me immense pain and guilt. I was scared that I hadn’t done enough to protect colleagues like Renée. I was scared that my voice wasn’t loud enough when it needed to be.

Over eggs, toast, avocado salad, and orange juice, I pondered whether the professors at the law school felt a similar sense of guilt, wishing they had raised their voices louder and fought harder to protect me.

By the end of breakfast, I was too depressed to go to my planned day of fashion meetings which I had been using as an excuse for my escape back to New York. Renée’s plans for the day fell through, and she had already called out of work. So, after breakfast, we let the magic of Manhattan guide us.

Renée’s shoes had broken, the city-equivalent of a flat tire, so we started our aimless expedition by shopping for a replacement pair at a trendy second-hand store.

While I waited for Renée to try something on in the fitting room, I thought about how I “tried on” law school. I had spent years believing I needed to convince everyone I was polished and professional enough to deserve the degree. When really, I had nothing to prove.

“Clearly, they wouldn’t have known professionalism if it bit them in the ass,” I told Renée as she purchased a pair of shoes and me, a pair of leather pants (forty bucks! It was a steal!).

Later, I proudly paraded Renée around my elegant hotel room, the marble tub, the brass fixtures, and the “really cool” room key. Then we walked the city streets, drenched in sweat during the unusually balmy September day. We talked about married life, work and her new job, a far healthier environment than Swimsuit Dot Com.

Despite filing grievances and complaints, my law school had done nothing. The inaction plunged me into a months-long anxiety attack so severe even walking the halls felt unendurable.

But New York felt different.

I remembered a line from a horror film: bad things happen when you leave the city. 

Had that been my mistake all along?

One night, I got a flat tire on a drive home. I was terrified to stop in an unfamiliar place, fearing I would be the next queer person memorialised in a headline. Homophobic slurs in my new neighborhood heightened my fear, both inside and outside my home. Every news alert about anti-LGBTQIA+ legislation or violence in our own backyard intensified my panic.

Driving home on that popped tire ruined my car. I couldn’t afford car repairs, especially after administrative errors delayed my financial aid reimbursement. And still, I pushed on.

Photography by Lucy Dover (@lucy_dover_)

Somewhere along the way, the sunk cost fallacy poisoned my mind. I didn’t want to be there anymore. But leaving felt impossible. The universe would punish me again. People would assume I couldn't hack it or that I had failed. I imagined myself branded with a scarlet Q: Quitter. I couldn’t stop justifying the years I invested, the sacrifices already made, the pain already endured.

Then, on August 31, 2023, the intrusive thoughts became too loud to ignore. For the first time in my life, I cursed my own creativity. When resisting my thoughts became too difficult, I sought the help of a trusted professor, exactly the right person at exactly the right moment.

“Don’t do it,” he said only moments after I walked into his office.

Before I had spoken a word, he somehow understood.

“Goddamn it, Dalton, do not kill yourself! For them? Fuck these people. Fuck this place. Do not kill yourself for them.”

I climbed away from the edge of a black abyss. For the first time in years, I could finally breathe.

“Your and your husband’s love is the light, you understand? You are the light.”

That wise, impeccably dressed man reminded me who I was: a force.

“You saved my life,” I sobbed. “Oh my God, you saved my life.”

That was the day that I learned stopping is sometimes the bravest and wisest choice a person can make. More importantly, I learned never to suffer in silence.

In New York, Renée and I had wandered to 10th Avenue. We took another pit stop for water. Renée’s new shoes were starting to blister her feet. So, we decided to grab some Band-Aids. Still, we kept walking. The kind of wander that only happens in movies and in New York City. Her feet bled. My thighs chafed. Yet, the endless possibilities of an unplanned Manhattan afternoon alleviated all our aches.

I had almost drowned in the fear of quitting. Only when I was reminded of my worth could I see that, just like Swimsuit Dot Com, some environments are not worth the cost of staying.

It took me three turbulent years to understand the delicate equilibrium between courage and self-preservation, somewhere between diving headfirst into the unknown and knowing when survival requires retreat.

I can’t let fear turn me into a paranoid recluse. But as someone living with an anxiety disorder, there’s a power in recognising my limits. It’s exhausting to feel as though I’m fighting for my life every day, as a man married to another man, working in an environment that’s harboring hatred so casually. And if leaving during my final semester becomes necessary to preserve my dignity, my peace and the pride in my own work, so be it. I’d rather leave with integrity than merely finish for the sake of completion.

As the sun started to set, Renée and I found ourselves in the park near the restaurant where our day began, talking about the imaginary farms we would own once we tire of city life.

We said goodbye in the summer evening’s drizzle, still chafed, still blistered, still grateful.