I was never that young prepubescent girl who was concerned with her weight, or mirrors, or magazines, or clothing. I used to sneak into my brother’s closet once a year and take my favourite items, which I would continue to wear every day until they were old and tattered, which by my mother’s standards, were old and tattered when I claimed them as my own the year previous. I suppose I never thought about it because I stayed at a pretty constantly low weight. Those are the adjectives I yearn for these days: low; constant. I developed much later in life than my friends, but I was never terribly eager, nor was I terribly self conscious. I took comfort in my lack of breasts, and hips. I took comfort in my small waist and frame, my nimble fingers and fragile wrists. I liked being able to count my ribs when I was sitting most comfortably, even when I was slouching. I liked all these qualities. Perhaps, I was more attached to them than I had a liking for them, but back then, and even now, I confuse the two so often that I group them together, unfairly. It wasn’t that I was content with my weight; I was ambivalent. But I was subconsciously attached to it. I attributed my personality, my qualities, aspects of me, to my body. And when I gained weight, I felt that I had lost some part of me that I never knew I had to begin with. I was no longer Little Paras, and for some reason, that nearly killed me.