by Dave Bruton

Psychotherapy is a holistic method to treat the mental, emotional and psychiatric disorders of a patient. It is an effective treatment procedure which is approached by the patients going through a depression.

Psychotherapy is commonly applied for psychological problems which continues for months and even for years.

It is a treatment of emotional, behavioral, personality and psychiatric disorders, which is based on verbal and non verbal communication and interventions with the patients. The kinds of psychotherapies with which a psychotherapists deal involves a variety of treatment techniques. Some of them are :

Behavior Therapy
This therapy concentrates on helping the patients know how their behavior will bring a change in their feelings. Emphasis is focused on increasing the probability of positive experiences.

Cognitive Therapy
The theory behind the therapy is how a person feel could be judged with his or her thinking ability. The therapy focuses only on the current thinking, behavior and communication rather than focusing only on the past.

Family Therapy
While dealing with the patients, symptoms of patients are judged in the context of the family. Past relations are analyzed to find out the actual reason for the stress of patient. And the clients are asked to answer the questions openly rather than defensively.

Besides all these, psychotherapy is fruitful to judge the interpersonal relations and improve the communication pattern of a patient.

It is a fruitful and a challenging job which needs complete knowledge and dedication to stay ahead in the field. The leading education centres across the globe especially in UK, proffer the courses to the students interested in such areas.

Heeeeeyyyyyyy, My name is Nikki & I’m 27 years old. I was blessed with my second child (son) in February 2013 after 2 miscarriages. I was so happy, mainly because my 9 year old is turning into a little man & I can no longer attack him with my kisses. I gained a lot weight with him, and I was told it was water weight, because I couldn’t keep anything down the whole pregnancy so I didn’t understand the weight gain, but it was there.

I cried when I got on the scale at my 6 week check up after giving birth(Literally) & I knew it was time to lose the weight. I am so happy to tell you I lost 80 lbs after very hard work. I put myself on a 1400 calories diet and was exercising everyday and drinking lots of water. Hard work does play off eventually…lol I lots 80 lbs in about 8 months… Yayyyyyyyy me.. Almost back to my high school weight. lol..

I really need to a tummy tuck, I feel like I have the right curves in all the right places, except the big belly… lol, its sad, because I’m smaller everywhere except my belly, that I have people ask me am I pregnant all the time… OMG, right??? Its depressing, but I’m get a tummy tuck.

I’m a Hospice CNA full-time & now I’m also working sitting with patients on the side to try to save up for it. I do sooooo much for others, I really just want to do something for myself.

I have attached a few pictures of me now & one of me when I was 8 months pregnant. He really did some damage to this belly.. Thanks for reading & feel free to respond here. 

TTTTTTHHHHHAAAAANNNNNNKKKKKSSSSSS!!!
I want to body to fit this great personality I have…

This article first appeared in Full Grown People on 13 January 2014 and is copied here with kind permission

By Zsofi McMullin

The surgeon sat between my legs on a low stool, his left hand gently cradling the curve of my right breast as he drew dotted lines and circles on my skin. I was sitting on a hospital bed, my feet dangling off the side and I wasn’t sure where to look. His touch was measured and medical, but the intimacy of the moment took my breath away.

“This isn’t awkward at all,” I joked, trying to break the silence in the small examining room. The surgeon laughed with me, but never broke his concentration on the measurements—between collarbone and nipple, the space between breasts—mapping out where cuts and sutures and skin will go.

He quietly explained his strategy for the surgery to the resident sitting next to him, but he continued to focus on my breasts. I was in danger of breaking out in giggles and making his precise lines go wiggly, so I tried hard to concentrate on something else … anything. His wispy, graying hair. Sun-kissed, rugged cheeks. Blue eyes. Broad shoulders, sculpted arms, big, secure hands. Concentrating on him clearly didn’t make things easier. His breath smelled like chocolate.

This, I found the most reassuring.

•••

I am not sure when I realized that I have big breasts. And not just big breasts, but really big, bigger than big should be. I’ve always had this body and you get used to seeing yourself every day in a certain way. Sure, it changed with puberty, and the Freshman Fifteen, and the Married Ten, some weight loss here and there, and with pregnancy. But its essence—round belly, curvy hips, soft thighs, and big boobs—never really changed.

I got my first bra when I was twelve. At the time we lived in China because of my dad’s job, and I remember my mom gently suggesting that I should try on a bra. I was a bit surprised that she happened to pack one that fit me. I only started to wonder later whether it was actually one of her bras.

So that’s how it started and the sizes just kept going up and up. After we returned home from our Chinese adventure I got a couple of soft, cotton bras with pink hearts on it. Later my mom steered me to more supportive styles with wide straps and that awful beige-y hue that old ladies wear.

There are a lot of humiliating things about having unnaturally large breasts. The stares, especially when you are too young to handle such attention. The difficulty in finding clothes that fit, a bathing suit, or not being able to walk around without a bra, unless you want to look really, really ridiculous. But the thing that always got to me was shopping for bras: in almost every store—even in ones that seem to cater to larger women—you have to look in the very back and the very bottom of every display rack to find your size. I don’t know how many times I found myself shedding coat and purse and actually kneeling on the store floor to find what I was looking for. If, I could find what I was looking for.

•••

The first time I got naked with my first serious boyfriend, he was very nervous about taking his shirt off. I didn’t really understand until he finally pulled his t-shirt over his head. There were small scars around his nipples and he quietly admitted that as a teenager he’d had breast reduction surgery.

I thought about him as I was getting ready for my own surgery and about how he liked to compare my breasts to fruits: apples, oranges, peaches. “They’re more like melons,” I corrected him once, and I remember the shocked look on his face before we both burst into laughter.

There were men who were afraid of my breasts, hesitating about touching them, maybe intimidated by their heft. There were men who worshipped and treasured them, removing my bra last as if to save the best for last. There were men who didn’t really care or notice or comment.

But as I got older, I found that I cared and noticed more and more. I don’t think my breasts have ever held me back from doing things or made me more timid or shy. But, of course, it’s hard to say now because I can’t relive my younger years with small breasts for comparison. Could I have been more popular? More active and sporty? More outgoing, outspoken, confident? Would I have been more adventurous when it came to trying new things or going after things? I’d like to think that I was never defined by my breasts, but I am sure I was to some extent, at least in my mind. And who knows how others have thought of me? Was I ever “that girl with the rack”?

After I gave birth to my son I thought, finally, my boobs can do something good. But their size didn’t ensure that they would also produce enough milk, and it was actually harder to maneuver my nipples into the tiny, waiting mouth without smothering him. So not only was it impossible to find a pretty bra, or wear tank tops, or run, or just feel like I am not all boob, but now they couldn’t even feed my baby?

As the pain in my back and shoulders intensified each year, I finally made the decision: It was time for them to go.

•••

I found out my true bra size in a very posh lingerie shop in London a couple of years ago. Our kind B&B owner told me that I must go there because they are sure to carry my size. At the time, I thought that was a bit forward, and frankly I was just so sick of the humiliation of it all. But I was also curious. So I dragged my husband along and he walked around the neighborhood while I browsed. A woman who was about my age and was also fairly well endowed, pulled me into a dressing room. Even before I took my shirt off she said, “You are a 40H. I’ll be right back.” The number sounded impossibly foreign, especially because I realized that the bras I was squeezing myself into were two or three sizes too small.

She came back with a black lacy bra with no wires, and she quickly pulled off my old bra, which poked and bulged in all the wrong places. She put the black piece on me, adjusting me without any hesitation or permission and boom: there were the ladies, all tight and firm, lifted, separated, in place, and happy. The bra cost two hundred dollars. I bought it without hesitation. I wore and treasured that bra for years and years, washing it by hand, air-drying it, until it slowly, slowly fell apart.

•••

The pain was excruciating when I woke up from the surgery. My nipples were burning and my chest felt heavy and somehow hollow at the same time, as if my chest cavity were scooped clean.

As a new dose of pain medication took effect and the anesthesia wore off, I took a quick peek under my hospital gown. I couldn’t really see much—just bandages and an ugly surgical bra that was way too tight. The nurses and the surgeon were obviously very excited about the results. “They removed five pounds,” one nurse informed me. It was clear that it was a big deal.

The next day at my follow-up appointment to remove drains, the surgeon made a special point to stop by and help the nurse working on me. He thumbed my nipples to see if I had any sensation—yes, I did, thank you very much—and marveled at his own handiwork. It took me a while to work up the courage to look at them without the bra and without the bandages.

If they had removed five pounds of flesh from my stomach or from my thighs, I don’t think the experience would have been that emotional. But I couldn’t quite speak or put feelings into words when I saw my breasts—small, white, firm, and even with the bruising and the swelling and the specks of blood and blue ink left over from the surgery so, so very beautiful.

“We are so excited for you,” the nurse said. “This is going to make a huge difference in your life.” The surgeon put clean gauze around my incisions and held gauze pads to my breasts as the nurse eased a clean surgical bra over my shoulder and around my chest. He squeezed my hands as he left, clearly touched by what he had done for me; I wasn’t really sure what to do with his enthusiasm. I wanted to say something witty about how excited I was, or how certain I was that my life would change, or how I really, really understood the significance of what I have done.

But I really didn’t—not then and maybe not even now. And maybe there isn’t a greater meaning to any of those five pounds of fat and tissue. The body that was mine for all these years is no longer, but I carry its history and experiences inside. Now that there is no more pain, the swelling is gone and my skin has smoothed out again, everything else about me remains the same – the belly, the hips, the hair, the nose, the stubbornness, the introversion, the indecision, the writing, the chocolate, the four-year-old.

I am still me.

Still, when I look in the mirror every morning, I feel giddy.

•••

The lingerie shop that opened near my office is one of those places where I never would have thought about shopping just a few months ago. It is not a store that carries special sizes. There are three mannequins in the window wearing lacy, gauzy bras and panties, silky robes. Behind their headless bodies is a large room with neat racks on the walls—no digging around on the floor here.

A very young, tall, and skinny salesgirl shows me to a dressing room. I try not to be too obvious about checking her out when she mentions that she sleeps in a bra because she has large breasts. I can’t see what she is talking about.

She measures me and announces my new size. “You are between a 38 F and a 40 DD,” she says and quickly leaves the dressing room to pick out some bras for me. I am a bit bummed. Those numbers still sound incredibly big to me, but when I look at myself in the half-light of the dressing room what I see is teeny-tiny compared to my old self. I try hard not to concentrate on those numbers and letters. Just like weight, height, or age, they are just numbers after all.

The first bra I put on is light purple with black lining and lace. The straps are ruched and skinny, with just two hooks in the back and a small, rhinestone heart and a black silk bow in the front. “It fits like a glove,” the salesgirl says as she adjusts the straps, and I am too busy checking myself out to respond. I try on three more and I really can’t believe that all of this delicate and tiny silk and lace can be mine.

Whatever this surgery will come to mean in my life, whatever change it will bring—or not—almost doesn’t matter. This is a pleasure in life: to feel normal, to feel pretty, to have soft, luxurious fabric against my skin, to look at myself and not turn away. The salesgirl asks if I want my husband to come in and take a look. I tell her no. He will get his turn, but this moment is all mine.

I don’t check the price tags. I buy them all. The ladies and I waited a very long time for this.

•••

ZSOFI MCMULLIN was born in Budapest and lived there until she turned eighteen. She became a “full-grown-person” over the past nineteen years spent in the U.S. She lives on the coast of Maine with her husband and her four-year-old son. Her day job is in publishing, but she spends all of her free time between four and five a.m. every morning imagining that she is a writer.

About Me

Hey guys, so I’ve decided to set up a blog that’s all about, yes you guessed it, a female’s world!  Bearing in mind I’m just one person so I’m not generalizing here. This is just my own female perspective on life and what I live on a daily basis. I’ll try to keep you as entertained as possible!

Make-up, fashion, life dilemmas, advice and tips from how to get the ‘London Look’ on a budget that suits you to how to  get over that guy who you just can’t seem to get over (ugh don’t you just hate that?)

Whether it’s my favorite eyeliner that I just HAVE to shout about to the world, a new hot spot I’ve discovered or a blog about the most amazing dish I’ve eaten at a restaurant (be warned, that’ll probably happen a lot as I LOVE food) I’ll be here to write about it.

A little about me…My name’s Leyla, I’m an Aries and 23 years YOUNG! I have the best mum in the world and I’m currently very much in love with my little Shih Tzu Ellie. Honestly, whoever said diamonds are a girl’s best friend never had a dog! I was born in London but I’m originally from Cyprus. I love love LOVE music and movies and I love love LOVE food even more, especially Turkish food, it’s the BEST (of course I would say that wouldn’t I?). I’m a writer and  producer, currently working on an independent movie project which I have a separate wordpress account for at http://www.avaaavaa.wordpress.com (feel free to check it out, no pressure). My motto in life is to live it to the full. Time will pass us by anyway so we might as well live it up to the max and make it one to remember 

Anyway, I’ve gone on about myself enough. I’ll try and keep up as much as I can with blogging on here. If you like random then I’m sure you’ll like ‘A Female’s World’ so feel free to follow and check in from time to time 

Much love

x

Weight loss and appearance

I have been on a journey of weight loss for three years.  I am writing a blog and boy have I realized some things about myself while doing it.  I had gained well over 100 pounds after I got married.  My life style had completely changed!  I went from being supported by my Mom and Dad and having the liberties to do what I wanted – within reason of course – to having a full-time job, being married and having to pay my own bills.  A huge adjustment for me.

I was working 8 to 5 and grabbing breakfast on the way to work became a habit.  Going out to lunch with co-workers became another habit.  I never made good choices either.  I packed on the pounds.  Slow at first and then, bloom I was 200 lbs.  I was eating more food than was necessary for one person.  I basically gorged.  This went on for several years and at one point I was 258.

Several years into my career, I was diagnosed with epilepsy.  I have complex partial and simple partial seizures.  I take three meds and seizures are not controlled.  I was told I could no longer work or drive.  All is well though, we adjust our lives and move on.  Eight years ago my husband and I were fortunate to have a healthy daughter.  My life changed and I became a stay at home mom.  It makes me very happy!  As I started this new chapter I made new friends.  I met a lady at a bible study and we clicked instantly.  We are so much alike but she is more angle like while I am more devil.  Not in an evil sense.  I mean she is sweet and kind and I am sarcastic/funny and a bit hard yet nice – if that makes sense.  Anyway, she told me she was going to start doing some personal training.  It’s her thing and she was going to give it a try.  I signed up right away!  She became my trainer and I refer to her as T in my blog.

She got me through a very hard journey.  She helped me lose 120 pounds – 258 at my highest down to 138.  She was tough on me and was kind, she was there for me any time I needed her.  I specifically remember texting her one night telling her she better talk me out of eating a box of donuts.  She did too!  As I lost weight I learned more and more about myself.  I became extremely focused as I started weighing certain amounts.  I became very obsessed about what the scale said.  My personality would turn a bit ugly.  I was going through a lot with the epilepsy surgery candidate process at the same time.  My meds would get out of whack.  I lost 12 pds while in the hospital for 6 days having testing done.  I was thrilled with the weight loss. T was not.  She and I started going round and round about where I was weight wise.  I went into a complete downward spiral.  I would lie to her about what I was eating when I really wasn’t eating much of anything.  I had anger towards her for telling me I wasn’t being healthy.  This turmoil between us started last fall and continues now.  She has begun to understand that she is too close to me to help me with this issue.  We are like a parent/child when it comes to this.  If she tells me I look healthy, I tell her that to me that means I am fat.  If she tells me how I should eat, I want to go and do the opposite.  It’s a complete mind game and totally ridiculous.  We workout at the same gym but not usually together, she comes to my house for training workouts.  The owner of the gym where I workout is helping me with diet.  He doesn’t care about my feelings and has no problem telling me about the damage I am doing to myself.  For some reason I am willing to listen to him.  There is too much emotion between T & I, we are friends and have been through this emotional journey together.  The only connection I have with the owner of the gym is that he owns the gym I go to.  No emotions with him, he is cold hard facts.

So as I have continued with my blog, I have revealed a lot about myself.  I have learned a lot about myself too.  The diet struggles, they have been with me for years.  I’ve certainly realized that.  I’ve dieted to an extreme level and I have over eaten.  I’ve tried to think about why I am like this.  This obsession I have with thinking I am fat.  At 138 or 150 or 258, I see fat & imperfections.  I don’t see what other people see.  I see someone who still needs to fix weight problems.  I remember these feelings in high school and college too.  I would diet and workout but I couldn’t change what I saw.  I think it first started after my sophomore year in high school.  I was a gymnast, since age 3, and my activity level was off the charts so I didn’t really have to watch what I ate.  I don’t recall ever thinking about my weight while in gymnastic.  Once my activity level went from competitive gymnast to high school track & cheerleading, I gained a couple of pounds – literally a couple.  My thought was that I had to diet, I had to watch what I ate.  I never considered that those couple of pounds were ok.  Then when I was in college I added obsessive workouts at the gym.

I’ve done this dieting thing for years, battling with the feelings of being fat.  Been anxious thinking - oh if I could just lose this much weight or tone this area I’d be happy.  It’s utterly exhausting.  After marriage and starting a career my focused changed.  I didn’t find the time for exercise and I didn’t want to battle diets anymore.  So I gorged.  120 pds later and I am back to a healthy weight but once again battling long set behaviors and emotions.  Now I get to add anger over what the excessive weight gain has done to body.  My thoughts aren’t about what others think, I could care less.  It’s what I see when I look at myself, that’s the person I can’t seem to make happy.  I’m one extreme to the other and always focusing on what is wrong with my appearance or what I need to work on to make it better.