My View from Under the Bus

There are interesting things under a bus, things that for many years I didn’t know existed.  You may ask how I came to be under the bus.  My answer:  I was thrown here.  I’ve been here for a very long time.  For a while I thought I might be allowed to peek out from time to time, to see what the rest of the world is doing as my bus flies through town.  But, after peeking out a few times (I was even able to lift my head off the ground once or twice, once even to stand as the bus momentarily came to a halt, both to no avail) I realized, after being questioned as to why I was trying to come out without permission, that a) I am exactly where certain people would like me to be and b) in many respects it is just plain safer here.  (Given the figurative meaning of this phrase, in which one assumes that indeed the bus is moving, one might think that being thrown under the bus hurts.  Well, in all honesty, it does hurt quite badly at first.  But the wounds heal, and when one is destined not to come out, it really isn’t so bad in the long run, as long as you remember to grab onto something and hang on for dear life.)  This is where it seems that I personally am to remain, at least for the foreseeable future.  Sometimes I get weak, lose my grip and am scraped along the ground for a mile or so.  At least I’m not out in the open where the rest of the world can watch, and the callouses I am developing are becoming thicker with time and this is very helpful.  I don’t know that the driver even knows that I’m here, but it makes no difference.  He’s doing his job, and I’m doing mine.  In contemplating my situation, it seems that my present circumstance will lead to one of two things:  it will make my skin so tough that nothing will be able to penetrate it, or it will kill me.  I’m not sure which is preferable, but this attitude too changes from day to day.  What seems to be important is that I’m losing my will to even attempt an escape.  I’ve internalized the fact that, really, the view from down here is not so bad.  Maybe I have become a defeatist, or maybe I’m just defeated.  Makes no difference.  For now I’m hanging on.  I’ve faced the reality that I may not be able to continue to do so.  The level of my ability to concentrate will make or break me.  How does this pertain to the person who threw me under the bus?  Well, it does and it doesn’t.  In some sick way I in a sense allowed myself to be thrown, and thus I am responsible.  I seem unable to shift that responsibility from myself, and so here I cling.  Here I hang.  Here I scrape.  Though the view from here is clouded and painful, it will not change until I choose to take a stand and choose not to be afraid of being beaten back down.  I’ve learned that in life one often learns too late that one is in a difficult position, and by the time the realization hits all energies are already being directed toward simply hanging on and there really isn’t enough left to begin an effort toward change.  What I need to do is just let go and hope the back wheels don’t run me over.  Wish me luck.