There are days when I am low and I ask myself "What Would Dana Scully/Ellen Ripley/Sts. Joan or Francis Do?" and the question is enough to give me buoyancy, enough to make me meet the frightening things head-on and feel damn good doing it.
There are other days when all the desperate prayers I can muster are not enough to get my fists up; days when, despite my knowledge that I am not weak and I have nothing to fear, I feel weak, I feel afraid. And I hate these days. I don't know what to do with them. I am a tired Greek metaphor--Atlas, Sisyphus--with nothing so concrete as a rock to point at and say "hey, the futility of pushing this stupid boulder is why I feel so crappy."
Sigh. What Would Scully Do. What Would Scully Do. What Would Scully Do.
If I say it enough times, I'll figure it out.