a little box full of soul

Strip off your main definition of yourself. You know, that part of you which has always made you proud and powerful. That thing about which you've always been passionate. The part of you that makes you feel interesting and different and, let's face it, special when filling out those godforsaken online dating profiles, or talking to the decidedly unartistic souls with whom you pass your work week. [not everyone -- just to be clear]

Go ahead and strip that off. Fold it carefully and put it in a little silk-lined box. Glue the little box someplace in your peripheral vision so you can periodically peek in on it and wonder if putting it away is the best idea.

Don't put it away yet.

Then tell some people you're thinking about redefining yourself. Maybe even show them the little box with your soul in it. Watch their eyes widen, or nod in appreciation and admiration, or watch them back away, taking their carefully-defined selves (not in boxes) with them. Listen to some of them drone on and on and on (god, shut up already!) and on about how they did it ten years ago and how it's the hardest thing you're ever going to do. How it's going to hurt and how it requires "a little bit of thought every day."

Try to ignore the box. Pretend it will all sort itself out. In the meantime, ignore the empty space that climbs up your limbs, tiptoes mockingly behind you and washes up on the shores of your desert island just to drown you.

Start to hear criticism in everything that everyone says. You're too needy. I don't want to talk about this with you because it's more than I can handle. I can't call you because you can't support me. You're a burden. [Nobody's actually saying that, but hear it anyway.]

Look at the box. Avoid the temptation to pick it up and slip inside the comforting warmth of your definition and rip the box to tiny fucking shreds.

Get completely lost. Don't bother asking for directions. Nobody has them for you (except maybe your coworker who wouldn't shut up about it, even after you sat, twitching in his office, checking your watch, twirling your hair, practically shreiking "LEAVE ME ALONE").

Try to be patient. Try not to take this fear and frustration out on other things, like boys who refuse to be there for you, or friends who love you and can't give you the answers you so desperately want them to provide. Try not to think of yourself in terms of negatives (not enough, not interesting, not worth the effort), and try to be ok with the unfilled hours that stretch out before you.

Mop your floor. [I'm not sure it helps, but it probably needs to be done.]

The box will always be there. God wililng, the itch inside your skin will not.