Image by Sourcemap Project CC BY-SA 2.0
I work in plastics. Well, not actually in them, just with them. I’m a press operator, and I’m responsible for inspecting and packing parts, configuring pallets, and babysitting half of my crew members. I work for a company that cares more about tiny bits of polyethylene than the well being of its employees. The head honcho is more concerned about the fact I’m not at my machine, rather than the reason why. That reason being, I had just properly sliced my finger wide open on a sorry excuse for a box cutter, that they themselves had provided me. Instead of being concerned with my safety and well-being, their issue lies with my blood on their product, and how much of a pathogen threat I am. They were quick to shut my line down and decontaminate the area, while I stood idly by, blood-soaked rag getting bloodier by the moment. This is the place where you’ll sooner get, “Jesus, you’re not going to need stitches, are you?” rather than, “Oh my god, are you okay? Here, let’s get you bandaged up.”
I understand that many people believe that this job is better than no job at all, but there are times I beg to differ. Yes, I’m making a steady paycheck. Yes, I can (barely) pay my bills; but at what true cost? No respectable human being should sacrifice their sanity and self-worth for a measly $9.35 an hour.
“Rarely ever did I even know the time. I was just following a pattern. I started slipping – no, free falling – into insanity. I’d gone absolutely bonkers.”