"Ectype in the Mirror" by Ella K

Definition of ectype According to and via Merriam Webster

1: a copy from an original : an imitation or reproduction (such as an impression of a seal)

a: something in the world of external reality as distinguished from its eternal and ideal archetype or prototype

Lockeanism : an idea or impression more or less corresponding to some external reality

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I was born in a box, a box with four sides, the sides that I saw were mirrored. I grew up in this box surrounded by myself.

 

The ‘ectypes’ of myself.

 

As a child I longed for the day I could feel everything. Pure, untouchable bliss turned to burning fury and then to deepened, crushing sadness. That, to me then, sounded like the perfect day, however I was not allowed to experience these sentiments as an ectype of those around me, a reflection of my environment. As a fully grown child, my needs naturally came second. After all, I had two families to raise, two young parents to care for, to discipline, to teach right from wrong. I had to be perfect and not in my academic or personal endeavors but in those trivial daily tasks usually handled by the adults. I reminisce on those youthful days where I would boast about my lack of tears when I fell. Not one soul could have told me, then, and be met with belief that I would make up for those lost tears now. As I am turning from grown child to young adult, I can feel my heart breaking for my past selves and for the ectypes of myself that I could have been. The inevitable dread that swallows me whole as I imagine what life would've been like had some minutiae details been altered for the better, had I been the better ectype of myself. Do those ectypes of myself exist out there? Somewhere? Perhaps if I had put my effort into academia, I could be smart enough to keep up with my peers. Or into friendships, I could have been surrounded by people performing to keep my affections. Maybe even my appearance, I could always be better at something and am reminded of that fact often. Instead, I made the oh, so foolish choice to carry out my responsibilities. I know how to be silent and how to be useful to those who aren’t useful to me. My entire identity, the ectype that is myself now, has become what others need and I enforce this by perfectly conforming. One of the consequences of growing up too fast in this manner is getting old while you’re supposed to be in your prime. I’m already brittle, while my adolescent parents are finally growing up themselves. They get to open up, try again, turn a new leaf, and discover their best ectype while I get left behind. All of the sacrifices that I made were for nothing, this must be what love feels like. It could also be hatred. They are the same thing, both manmade and both stemming from the same place, my heart. The bloody river of which I drink to quench the thirst I was left with. Nothing works. It leaves me, forever bloodied, forever thirsty.

 

I envy the ectypes of myself.

 

And now even as my long outgrown glass box shatters around me, even as the fragments of mirror, fragments of myself, cut my face, I can't help but remain still. I don't want to be shielded from the violence anymore, I want to feel it in its entirety. Even if it all means nothing, even if it all means everything, I am going to feel those emotions I once longed for. No matter how disfigured I may become, I never want to return to that reflective prison, the place where I feel nothing, where I am nothing, where my only purpose was to do as told. I'll destroy all my mirrors until they are simply sands of time and I will fully embrace any bad luck that brings me. I will become a real person, I won’t allow my life to be devoid of meaning, and I won’t remain a reflective ectype of others any longer. Those ideal ectypes of myself… I can achieve that. I will.

 

My personal definition of Ectype is vastly more exciting and dynamic compared to the textbook version. There is an unnatural connection, a personal attachment that should not be there but I can not get rid of this connotation, not while it perfectly relates to my dramatic internal monologue. Maybe you are thinking that this ending is cliched and ridiculous, and if that is how you feel, I can’t deny the accuracy. Even so, I refuse to end on a cynical note as that wouldn’t reflect the variety life has to offer each of you. We have a lot more in common than you may think, and the ectypes of yourself make that abundantly clear. Somehow, there are versions of yourself that are sweetly soft, and some aggressively decisive, and some… lazy, rushed, confused. The ectype that is myself, the ectype that is yourself, the ectype that is everything you want it to be, the ectype that is nothing of the sort; Which are you? Which am I?

 

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