'I Worked in a Slaughterhouse. You Stop Noticing the Screams'

I was 19 years old when my previous wife became pregnant. We were both very young and at the time we didn't have any real prospects outside of doing cheap work. So, she stayed home, and I took a job at a slaughterhouse in 2001.

The plant employed over 3,000 people and was the largest employer in my midwestern region. We had always heard horror stories of people coming out of slaughterhouses harmed with lifelong debilitating illnesses.

But I assumed that going into the job, I would be looked after. I was young and didn't have much experience in the workforce aside from working in fast food chains, so I was pretty naïve to the harsh realities of working in a slaughterhouse.

On my first day there, I saw hundreds of people on work lines, cutting up and chopping pigs. I realized that people either kept up with the fast pace of the factory or they lost their jobs.

Immediately, I recognized the kind of pressure these people were under in order to stay employed and feed their families. I noticed that everything was covered in a film of grease. There were layers of fat that covered every surface.

The factory was split into two sections: The hot side, where the cattle were killed, and the cold side, where they were cut into individual pieces.

Pigs would come in on trucks and get offloaded into the hot side of the building. They would then pass through a machine to get killed. I don't know how. The sound of countless pigs screaming was heard a quarter of a mile surrounding the entire plant when this was happening.

I did not see them getting killed, but I saw them come out of the machine and into the cold side of the building on meat hooks. Thousands of workers would then spend over 12 hours a day cutting the meat.

It was not a pleasant sight. At first, it was horrific, but after a while, I became desensitized to it.

Thankfully, I didn't do any of the cutting. From 2001 to 2003, I worked on the cut floor, driving a little stand-on forklift, which we call mules, and lifting up pallets and weighing them all. Although it was considered relatively easy work, it was still hectic and fast-paced. In 2003, I transitioned to the loading docks where I worked on my feet for twelve hours a day, with three days off.

I preferred working in the loading docks primarily because I didn't have to work with the meat and witness people in chronic pain using knives all day, every day. The loading docks were separate from the rest of the factory, but either way, it was grueling work.

At the loading docks, the final product would end up in boxes, and we would throw them onto conveyor belts to be stacked up into trucks. I consider myself lucky that I never had to use knives because my job was already horrible enough without the guaranteed harm that comes with using knives every day.

Working in a slaughterhouse may be morally repugnant and unethical to some people, but it was something we had to do to survive. We had to desensitize ourselves because we had to feed our kids and pay rent. What other choice did we have?

Our moral compass and ethical principles eventually changed to suit our environment, and we were forced to become numb to the brutality of what we had to do to live because there were no other options.

I don't know how much meat was wasted in the plant, but over 24 million pigs are killed a year in my state.

I became accustomed to seeing colleagues working with chronic pain. I noticed that the majority of people working with me were immigrants and undocumented workers. If they complained to their bosses about the factory conditions or the physical pain they experienced from constantly working, they were at risk of being immediately fired, or even worse, deported.

I witnessed people working day in and day out with severe hand and back pain in brutal conditions, dealing with bosses who demanded more from them than they would a citizen.

In one instance, a colleague of mine had broken his foot while working. He was terrified of being reported and losing his job, so he worked that week with a broken foot, throwing 60 to 120-pound boxes for 12 hours a day until he could take his vacation the following week and get his injury checked.

Personally speaking, in 2005 I had an abscess on my ankle that I went to see the nurse about because I couldn't stand.

She was infuriated that I wanted to see a doctor about it. In a room full of people, she picked up her phone, called the doctor, and said: "He wants to see a doctor about a rash."

It was a stark reminder that there was no consideration for the individual's needs, dignity, well-being, or humanity.

One of the most insidious aspects of working in the slaughterhouse was the effects of peer pressure. If you didn't do your share, plus a little extra, then you were making more work for the person next to you.

Instead of realizing that the company's expectations were too high, that the conveyor belt is too fast, or that we were required to throw too many boxes and do too much work, the blame fell on the person working beside you.

The culture of blaming one another instead of demanding better working conditions went on for years. Sometimes, our bosses would have little control over their emotions, which in turn would affect how they interacted with us; this went on for years.

By 2007, my drinking had gotten completely out of control. I was self-medicating—I fell into alcohol in order to relieve the stress of what I was doing. I just wanted to escape reality.

Thankfully, I was offered another job as a delivery driver with similar pay. Walking into the slaughterhouse day in and day out for years, had an enormous weight on me. I constantly felt dreadful.

When you have to wake up every day and hate what you do, it weighs on you, and it's too much for anyone to go through. Sadly, thousands of people have to, because they're not given any other opportunities.

A few years after quitting my job, I had to make a delivery to the slaughterhouse. I never really understood what happens to people who experience trauma until I did that particular delivery. I could feel my heart racing and my blood pressure rising. I was so nervous and anxious.

That's when I realized that I had experienced severe trauma from working at the slaughterhouse.

Currently, I have chronic back pain that flares up three or four times a year. I have what the doctors call wear and tear on one of my vertebrae. Every couple of years, one of my vertebrae will rub against a nerve, and I would be in excruciating pain until it stops. Last time, it was for two weeks. I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't lift my arm because of the nerve damage.

I also have severe hand pain. My colleagues and I developed arthritis at a young age. There are times when I couldn't pick up my children because I lost all strength in my arms. Every winter, my hands flare up and become swollen. I still can't close them all the way and I didn't work with knives, so I'm experiencing the least of it.

I eat less meat daily than I might otherwise, as I am conscious of the impact these facilities have on people.

So many people exist in a world where everything is delivered to them, but many people also don't see the human cost it takes to fill these needs. Some people don't realize that many are being exploited for these needs so that they can feed their children.

I believe that in the U.S., immigrants and refugees receive a lot of hate. It's mind-boggling to me because they're clearly willing to work and do everything they can just to provide for their families.

Everybody deserves to be treated with respect and dignity, and we need to show more compassion and appreciation for what everyone does for each other because we're all in this together.

Andre Noble is a married father of four. He has been sober for five years, and he is a truck driver, podcaster, and content creator. You can find him on Twitter.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

As told to Newsweek associate editor, Carine Harb.

Do you have a unique experience or personal story to share? Email the My Turn team at myturn@newsweek.com.