Julieth Marisol Holme

i write i guess

[marisol-holme]

[Ad for myself because I back myself]

Might be shouting into the void, but if anyone is looking to hire a freelance experienced writer for their business, and happen to be on Tumblr, then lucky you!

Reach out to me on here, or follow my instagram (linked below) and we can do a quick zoom and a haggle over service charges.

Serious enquiries only please, I am a busy human.

I am UK based.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/marisolholme?igsh=MTBib2ZnYTNzYjAxaA%3D%3D&utm_source=qr

[thoughtkick]

“You cannot change what you are, only what you do.”

— Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass (His Dark Materials)

[mournfulroses]

Ioanna Tsatsou, translated by Jean Demos, from Selected Poems; "Words of the Sea,"

[quotefeeling]

“I think it’s important to realize you can miss something, but not want it back.”

— Paulo Coelho

[weltenwellen]

Natalie Díaz, from “That Which Cannot Be Stilled”, Postcolonial Love Poem

[weltenwellen]

Natalie Díaz, from “That Which Cannot Be Stilled”, Postcolonial Love Poem

[mournfulroses]

Rainer Maria Rilke, from a poem titled "Strong, Silent," featured in Poems to Night

[marisol-holme]

PEACH

[marisol-holme]

The retired good girls guide to writing

Dog-pile

I’ve been on my period! Hence the lack of uploads. Being a writer, who feels obligated to share their work in the name of creativity, I felt guilty that I haven’t been working. It made me feel anxious, as if maybe I was wrong about my career path and calling. The word ‘trend’ chanted in my mind for days. 

Large brands and corporations, content creators and individuals at home Tweet, TikTok, Instagram, Facebook (still) incessantly, following the rat race churn of what’s going on in the world, as it is happening. Adhering stringently to what the viewers are reading and watching currently, desperately seeking relatability in the dog-pile of creation. 

I suffer from PMDD – Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder [1]. Since I started puberty, around 13, I’ve struggled with the both the physical and mental symptoms of PMDD. For about a week and a half (and sometimes up to two weeks) and up to the first/second day of my period, I experience depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, pain in my joints, insomnia, and rejection sensitivity – just to name a few. It’s a rough time. Honestly the breeze could waft, and I’d start bawling my eyes. It takes up more than a quarter of my life, and impacts my productivity, relationships, work, and self-image, and for 10 years, I just thought I was mad. 

Whilst working as a nursery practitioner, these symptoms meant that I took a lot of unpaid sick leave (sorry Doodles). I would often find myself overwhelmed, tearful, reaching for the door handle to head to work and terrified of what would happen if I left my home – so I’d call in sick. I mean I was sick, but the guilt of not knowing what was wrong made the situation a lot more uncomfortable. When COVID hit, these symptoms exploded tenfold. 

My COVID infection in November of 2023 was weird. My main symptoms were flu-like in their physical manifestation, but mentally, I was so confused to the point that I’d sometimes forget where I was, even in my own home. Getting lost on the tube to the point that I was walking in circles through the underground gangways at Euston station, feeling with my hands along the wall. I was so dizzy and slow; I was genuinely scared I’d fall onto the tracks if I’d let go. I could feel my brain working slower. The symptoms cleared up and then a couple of weeks after… they hit me again. I was testing negative, but all the symptoms were back. I was experiencing paranoia. Voices telling me that others were conspiring to help my mental health (a cute delusion, but still scary to experience). It wasn’t full blown psychosis, as I was still aware of what was going on, but my grip on reality was loosening. I cannot explain how terrified I was. I returned to my parents’ house to be looked after. I felt like a failure.

I was desperate to impress at my new job with the Ideas Foundation, but I was so confused, often making mistakes, forgetting simple tasks and sleeping through alarms. I was vomiting in the mornings and not being able to sleep at night. 2024 was supposed to be my year. I had to grovel at the doctors to get some help, and even when I was diagnosed with Long-COVID, I had to fight to get onto my antidepressants, and even went private for some beta-blockers. 

My prescriptions really calm my nervous system down. Which for someone who was trying to do psychotherapy, COVID recovery and everything else, they were a lifesaver [2]. I’m waffling about this because for a while now, I’ve known I was neurodivergent – yes, another buzz word now, but hear me out. 

My friends have often made jokes that I am autistic. Funny! I always thought they were jokes, but I now realise, neurotypical individuals probably don’t get the label autistic thrown at them as frequently as I do. Honestly, it all went over my head. Pretty autistic of me. Looking back, I can see how it was missed. I’m a big people pleaser. I aim to fit in, make people comfortable, often at the own expense of my individuality and energy levels (classic masking). My therapist told me to not worry too much about defining labels, I’m just – different. I am comfortable with being neurodivergent, neurologically different. 

I bring this up because PMDD disproportionally affects autistic and ADHD women. 92% of autistic women, and 46% of ADHD women, in fact [3,4]. I think it is because us neurodivergent girlies are rather sensitive to our environments. I liken my luteal phase (when my PMDD symptoms rear their big ugly head) to big Tesco. Big Tesco is the physical embodiment of my luteal phase – the fluorescent lighting, unbearably bright and yucky for my eyes is like the pain in my joints. Not quite got a warmth to it but, boy is it ON. Then the temperature fluctuations as I move throughout the store - hot, cold, back to hot, and then unbearably freezing. I feel the temperature changes in the air as I’m breathing into my lungs, and it’s on my skin. These are the mood swings! I feel raw to the temperature, the hormones, like a swing I can’t get off. The music playing, at just the dizzying volume to make you question picking Tesco for your weekly shop, is the anxiety in my chest. Growing heavier and heavier, louder and louder, but no one’s changing the volume. The occasional store announcement – those are the suicidal thoughts. You never know when they’re going to appear, but they do, well over the buzz of the store… well over the buzz of my body. 

As you can gather, I don’t like supermarkets. Click and collect has been a saving grace in terms of avoiding stress. It probably sounds quite silly. I am so lucky to be able to go into a store to get my food, checkout and leave, but doesn’t make it any easier for me. The same goes for my menses. I love being a woman. But I hate it sometimes too. 

Excuses, but I didn’t write. I was on my luteal phase, experimenting with a double dose of Paroxetine to get me through the suicidal thoughts and anxiety, and dampening the loudness of my body. I shouldn’t feel guilty for not contributing to the dog-pile. I will create my own little pile of stuff over here, thanks.  

It makes me think of Neurodiversity week. Related to the inclusivity that the Ideas Foundation champions, I (remotely) took part in a talk for neurodiversity week, listening to neurodiverse professionals speak on their experiences. I was supposed to write an article for their website. I didn’t. I remember being told that I needed to be on the ball. I wasn’t. As time went on, I felt like I’d missed the mark. The buzz that is often created and that marketing specialists feed off. I wasn’t as hungry. I guess, in a way, I’m writing the article now. It’s lovely having allocated days and weeks for things, I think. But sometimes it takes away from the message – like the generated buzz is more important that the actual message. The number of likes, comments, reposts are what counts (not!)

I fear that authentic messaging and realness is often preyed upon for the dog-pile of content creation. Are we posting pieces of ourselves for the right reasons or are we selling parts of ourselves for a click from another?  

Hello, I’m Marisol. I am a PMDD thriver, endocrine disorder haver, neurodiverse young professional creating a little pile of stuff on the internet over here! Why am I posting this and who are you?

By Marisol Holme

[1] https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/premenstrual-dysphoric-disorder-pmdd/about-pmdd/#:~:text=Premenstrual%20dysphoric%20disorder%20(PMDD)%20is,phase%20of%20your%20menstrual%20cycle

[2] https://www.tumblr.com/marisol-holme/754814396286517248/how-starting-paroxetine-changed-my-life?source=share

[3] Obaydi, H., & Puri, B. K. (2008). Prevalence of premenstrual syndrome in autism: a prospective observer-rated study. The Journal of international medical research, 36(2), 268–272. https://doi.org/10.1177/147323000803600208

[4] Dorani F, Bijlenga D, Beekman ATF, van Someren EJW, Kooij JJS. Prevalence of hormone-related mood disorder symptoms in women with ADHD. J Psychiatr Res. 2021 Jan;133:10-15. doi: 10.1016/j.jpsychires.2020.12.005. Epub 2020 Dec 3. PMID: 33302160.]

[marisol-holme]

Current read and recommendation!

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[marisol-holme]

The retired good girl's guide to writing

Little Pigeon Stubby Steps

I remember my casual interview with the Ideas Foundation like it was yesterday. My hair was still long, and I chose to wear a smart sky-blue collared shirt for the zoom call. I hadn’t been able to eat because I was so nervous. I wasn’t nervous for the interview itself, normally I’m quite confident going into them, I was nervous because I didn’t want to let Heather down. 

Heather, my friend, mentor, landlady and now interviewer had recommended I apply for the role. She’d spotted me drinking wine and smoking cigarettes in the corner of her garden, like some washed up dejected moron. I’d told her I’d been applying to jobs, but I wasn’t very successful. Truth be told, the constant rejection took its toll and probably looked quite sad from outside myself. The number of times I’d check my emails when I parked in the driveway and ended up crying was… embarrassingly high. I was bummed out and I think my vibes were bumming Heather out so much that she offered to look at my CV and give me some pointers. CV spruced up, I applied for a Marketing and Events Executive role with the Ideas Foundation.

I was interviewed by Heather, Helen, and Joe. Three people was a little nerve wrecking, I’m not too arrogant to admit, but I answered all their questions well and felt confident. I’ve always been good at thinking fast on my feet and my general knowledge isn’t too bad. I think it’s stupid to be judged on those merits though, there are a whole host of brilliant people out there that might not be too ‘sharp’ initially or be nervous or whatever. I remember trailing off at the end of the interview in a depressed sort of fashion and hoped they hadn’t noticed. I was quite tired, and I’d sweated through my shirt. I don’t think I’d even showered. I was glad that it was over zoom. I was giving depressed. They hadn’t got back to me with an offer before I handed in my notice at the nursery. My limbs had been feeling like lead for a while now, and I was sleeping on bean bags or in my car on lunch breaks. I could barely move around with the same energy. I felt bad for the kids that I was trying to educate. I don’t think they noticed but their parents certainly did. 

I was always open with the parents, professionally of course, but I told the truth. Maybe my unwillingness to turn a blind eye to the total extortion that was going on made me feel depressed. I hadn’t signed an NDA, so I had no obligation to the company whatsoever. The company that allowed their employees to take work home to complete… unpaid. It has probably changed now. I hope it has. The colleagues I had didn’t deserve all that. Maybe that makes me a dick to cast pity over them, or maybe its a residual depressive perspective, but my god was it a sorry state of affairs. 

My new job came through and I was to be paid about three grand more to do something, in my eyes, that was far less physically and mentally demanding than childcare. The job description was varied, and I had a lot to learn. John taught me how to use WordPress, which has proved to be very handy, and the basics of SEO management; Joe taught me how to coordinate and execute and event – this was very nerve wrecking for me and not something that I enjoyed; Marie taught me the academic backing for PR and article writing; I had to use my own initiative to figure stuff out, which I enjoy. Helen and her sister, Charlotte, taught me a lot about comms, although I’m not entirely sure that I know what comms is still. Throw in some decent knowledge about HubSpot, email marketing, social media management, scheduling tools, blah blah blah and I learnt quite a lot. But mostly I enjoyed writing the articles. Helen had to reign me in a few times as I’d get a too political for a nonpolitical organisation. I am political. 

I’d also started watching Sex in the City after work, having recently come out of a viewing slump that meant I was rewatching the same three shows constantly (Russian Doll, Bojack Horseman, The Queen’s Gambit). I love Sex in the City. I find it funny. I think for the current societal climate and post #metoo movement, it’s aged kind of badly. But, take it with a pinch of salt, read it as a satire, understand what it did for women in the 90s, and it’s a damn decent show. The characters are real and flawed, never able to pass the Bechdel test, and honestly, a great laugh. It took me a while to realise that I really liked Sarah Jessica-Parker’s character, Carrie Bradshaw. Carrie is insensitive to her friends, most of the time, obsessed with Mr Big, and writes a sex column. Oh, how I admire her.

Turns out, a lot of women hate her character. I mean, she is kind of annoying, but I think Carrie’s behaviour is quite synonymous with what misogyny looks like in women, and women do not like to think that they might be perpetrators of misogyny because, then they would be no better than a misogynistic man. I hold my hands up, I’ve got plenty of internalised misogyny swirling around my brain, I’m not ashamed of it, I’m actively trying to deconstruct it. But like homophobia and racism, if you can’t accept you might be afflicted by these structurally oppressive thoughts and behaviours, then you’ll never be a part of fixing them. A slight tangent but an important one. 

Anyway, I admire Carrie, her career, and her fashion. I allow myself now to browse Vinted and buy some cute clothes, to experiment with my style a little more. It was something that I forced my partner to watch, and I think he did secretly enjoy it too, even if the script is unbearable. Mostly, the show allowed me to feel okay with where I am at in life. I’m 24 years old, living independently, in a healthy relationship, employed and learning to love myself. I think that constitutes as doing more than okay. 

Then, before I knew it, my tenure at the Ideas Foundation finished abruptly. Well, I kind of knew it was coming because the charity wasn’t so hotly funded, and with looming elections literally everywhere, all the big corporations and brands were clinging onto their cash. Very generous of them! 

This was my first redundancy. I felt pretty okay with it. I actually felt sort of relieved. I’d been daydreaming about finding a job in a magazine for a while, so I felt bad only because I thought I’d manifested the early end to my contract. With hindsight, I probably should have communicated this to my work, but rejection is redirection whether it is intended to sting, or not.

[marisol-holme]

The retired good girls guide for writing

I haven’t always been able to understand myself. 

I never felt like I was able to clock pure basic needs. Couldn’t tell if I was hungry or thirsty. I finished my meals early, preferring to always feel full, in a silent critic of my mother and father’s controlling rule over my life. A few bites of fuck you always left on the plate. I liked to see how far I could push it. How little I could drink, sleep, or eat, and still function. A true desert island scenario would see me lasting years; I had inadvertently trained myself for it. Except my desert island was more devoid of emotional fulfilment and attention. 

I had to get creative. I developed some interesting tendencies, sure. But mostly I just wanted to escape. Now my parents never went out, and my internal world was already tumultuous at best, so I did what anyone would do and read. I read voraciously. The ability to turn off my hunger had seeped into all areas of my life. A fugue state dissociation through most of my early years through to adolescence. But I was able to come alive when I was reading. When I read, it was like my first breath. Hungry. I could imagine these worlds and built them up easily, colourfully within my mind’s eye. I'd picture the strong female characters that I admired. I’d taste food, hear music. It was the only time I was ever able to really live, before I had to go downstairs and pretend to eat.

Unwittingly, my upbringing fostered just the correct environment for me to develop a writer’s hunger. Because a writer is always a reader before they grow mad to write. I grew mad fast. I had to. I had to create worlds for me to escape into, away from all the shouting and fighting. Alchemise what I’d read into something new and original. It helped that I was an avid daydreamer, although a psychiatrist might call me a maladaptive daydreamer, but it only ever occurred to me when I was bored. Parallel to this, I grew into shame, so what I wrote I would throw away. I sadly have none of my early works. They are long decomposed into sub-atomic and absorbable waste, probably seeped into a water system somewhere and live inside all of you. Yuck. Not even my best work. 

Then I grew up and I had no dreams because I was not hungry. I hadn’t picked up a book in a long time. I dabbled with things that made me feel warm. Partying and shallow conversations. Grotty pubs and sticky clubs. Good friends made me feel a good kind of warm. But it took me a long time to find my way back to literature. Through a work stint as a Nursery Practitioner, I found my way back into writing. You see, at the nursery we had to send updates to parents all about what their children were getting up to. I enjoyed this task and wrote the children’s days like stories. Descriptive and alive. I’d got the bug and the bug had bit me. I didn’t last long once I had started writing again and I quickly found myself working at the Ideas Foundation. 

Through my new employer, I was encouraged to trial as much as possible to find out what I enjoyed doing. I was also very privileged to have access to several creative professionals who genuinely wanted to help and mentor those younger than them. Mentors can see all your ducks and help you to get them in a row. My ducks were all over the place and needed very graceful guidance. You push my ducks too much and, well, they explode. Poof!

Speaking to seasoned professional copywriters, I was able to glean their persistent journey into the profession. The confusion I once had around my goals has seemed to have dissipated. The ability to feel hungry for life and understand myself has only grown. My spark is back. 

The excitement and giddiness I feel when I think about myself as a writer is immense. The energy can fuel me for days. I look to the bottom left of my documents and the number of words that can pour out onto a page grows and grows with each project I set myself. The possibilities as a writer seem endless from this perspective. 

I understand that there is a lot more to these dreams that simple want. I must be focused. Persistent. Take up the offers of guidance from those around me. Accepting critic and moving towards goals. But the potential is there. I understand myself a little better. I value my work a little more. Hopefully, one day in the not-so-distant future a book of mine might get thrown away and end up decomposing in the damp soil into tiny fragments that find their way into us. At least that work will be better and born of something other than the child’s will to survive and create. That would make me feel okay. 

[marisol-holme]

How starting Paroxetine changed my life 

(Trigger warning: Anxiety, Self-harm, Suicide, Medication) 

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been an anxious girlie. Through life experiences and constant societal pressures, compounded with some spicy genetics (thanks Mum and Dad), as I grew up so did my propensity to anxiety.

What I didn’t realise was that it didn’t matter how much I moved my body to release stored trauma. No amount of yoga, running, weightlifting would ever shift the heavy ball in my chest. My breaths were constantly shallow, and so were my cyclical thoughts, which never shifted out of 1st gear.

I’d always second guess myself in social situations, overanalysing what I had just said, the perspectives that others might glean from my behaviour, the way I was holding my body, what I was doing with my hands. I would go home anguishing over every irrelevant detail. I’d still go out but get overwhelmed, preferring to return home and tuck myself into bed; or worse still, get too drunk to remember what I’d done and wake up with the dreaded hang-xiety. I was stuck ruminating and not really living. 

At the start of lockdown, I was back home from my second year at university. My parents had to collect me from Manchester Hospital. I had taken an overdose. At this point, I was self-medicating with alcohol, at my wits end with the health care system and unable to ask for help. My friends and family didn’t know what to do and neither did I. 

What followed were several years of talk therapy, me being a massive dickhead and trialling several medications. One psychiatrist thought that I might have Bipolar type 2 and started me on a medication to treat it. The medication was so strong, I ended up staying awake for a week and chatting to God, in the blue light of the Microwave’s digital clock at 3 in the morning. I’d often sit in my fifth-floor window, dangling my feet over the edge of the sill; images of me falling and cracking my pretty little head like an egg on the ground flashing into my mind. Not a lot had changed, except that I knew I didn’t really want to die. 

Citalopram made me feel wired, Sertraline genuinely made me feel like I was dying – and for the love of God do not ever get that tiny pill stuck in your throat (thanks Dad for rescuing me with the Gaviscon at 12 in the evening), Cognitive Behavioural Therapy did nothing for my sassy self. But I worked hard to be functional. Functionally depressed. Functionally anxious. Rarely self-harming, rarely blacking out. But I was not pleasant to be around. My friends were becoming few and far between. I’d started a new job several years after I almost lost my battle with my mental health and knew something had to give, so I hauled ass to my GP and was pleasantly surprised that it was a good experience.

My anxiety had skyrocketed since I’d contracted COVID in November of 2023. I was having panic attacks and migraines every day. I’d put blankets up on my windows and was living like a recluse. I was having OCD-like spirals in front of my partner and scaring myself. My therapist suggested medication. My doctor suggested Paroxetine. I was a little hesitant. But I popped the pills. A low dosage to start with. Just 10mg. The pill was supposedly meant to help with symptoms of Premenstural Dysphoric Disorder, and after tracking my cycle with my therapist, seemed like a key contender in my mood swings.

Paroxetine is an oldie, but goldie in the world of SSRI’s. Really rough on the withdrawals (I’m talking headaches, night sweats, night terrors, anxiety, suicidal ideation, even after skipping a dose – had to learn the hard way). It can be used to treat depression, OCD, Panic Attacks, Anxiety and PTSD [1]

Two months on Paroxetine (brand name Paxil or Seroxat) and I am working full time, making new friends, a better cat mum to my baby Pluto and that ball in my chest is slowly shrinking. I wake up on time, go to bed on time, and I’ve recently taken up swimming, and have plans to meet an old bar colleague to go horse riding. I’m all round more pleasant to be around. I can laugh and joke without overanalysing, and my relationship has gone from strength to strength. Life is… good. 

Hindsight is 20/20. I can now see how much depression and anxiety warped my reality. How it made me think I had some special ability to see the world for what it truly was. Shit. It told me the ‘truth’. That everything was bleak, that I was untalented, the world is relentless, and I can’t take the beatings. Then 10mg of paroxetine, some good old support from my peers, family, friends, and some good old challenging of my inner critic and suddenly I’m… happy? You guys feel like this all the time?

Yesterday I had a panic. What if I’m manic? What if I’ve been diagnosed incorrectly and the 10mg of Paroxetine coursing through my body is entering me into a manic episode! I then got tired and went to bed at 11pm to start work today fresh faced and ready to go again. I went swimming at my local Nuffield Health and reconnected with an old classmate’s mum. I realise now how much I have missed out on. 

The taboo of medication, both societal and internalised stigmas, can prevent recovery. It should not be a secret that I need a little support by way of medication to lead a fulfilling life. Mental health is health, full stop. Had I been shown the light (paroxetine) at 14 years old, I would have saved 10 years of living in survival mode. But I still did it. 

Thanks to the amazing staff at the Manchester Hospital for saving my life and making sure that I didn’t run away, my gorgeous friends that I lived with at 37 Landcross Road, Tatty Palace for seeing me through recovery, EB my bestie, my current GP, my partner and God Bless the NHS!

Disclaimer: The information provided in this article is for informational purposes only and is not intended as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your General Practitioner or a qualified mental health provider with any queries or concerns that you may have regarding yours or anyone else’s medical or mental health concern. If you are in crisis, please call 999 (UK) or an emergency line immediately.

Resources for Mental Health Support

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health issues, here are some resources that can provide support:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (USA)

Phone: [phone]-TALK (1-800-273-8255)

Website: suicidepreventionlifeline.org

Available 24/7 for confidential support.

Crisis Text Line (USA)

Text: HOME to 741741

Website: crisistextline.org

Free, 24/7 support via text message.

Samaritans (UK and Ireland)

Phone: 116 123

Website: samaritans.org

Confidential emotional support for people experiencing feelings of distress.

Lifeline Australia

Phone: 13 11 14

Website: lifeline.org.au

24/7 crisis support and suicide prevention services.

Kids Help Phone (Canada)

Phone: [phone]

Text: CONNECT to 686868

Website: kidshelpphone.ca

24/7 support for youth through phone and text.

Mental Health America (MHA)

Website: mhanational.org

Resources and tools for mental health support and advocacy.

Mind (UK)

Phone: [phone]

Website: mind.org.uk

Information and support for mental health issues.

Beyond Blue (Australia)

Phone: [phone]

Website: beyondblue.org.au

Support for anxiety, depression, and suicide prevention.

Remember, reaching out for help is a sign of strength. If you are in immediate danger, please call emergency services or go to the nearest emergency room.

By Marisol Holme

[1] NHS – About Paroxetine

[marisol-holme]

"I went to Paris, with a suitcase in my hand" - Paris, Texas (Lana Del Rey)

[marisol-holme]

Doll Syndrome

Clept after fractured porcelain,

A hollowed out bodiless thing,

In a worm-eaten patch tiered dress, 

Red tails where seams unstitched. 

Through dullen marble eyes 

a soul does shriek, 

Paint brushed features, 

A stitched widows peak. 

Twinned name with hallowed gist, 

Embroidery framed my letters stitched,

Sea salt air and sanded eyes,

Dolls lips kissed by a voodooist

[marisol-holme]

Artichoke Heart

Doctor! Doctor!

I am afraid, 

That an artichoke I ate, 

Has misbehaved. 

It’s stuck in my throat,

Constricting my breath,

And forming a block,

In my voice box. 

I’m aware of the irony, 

Of a heart in my throat,

But the artichoke heart, 

Has started to choke. 

My words they can form, 

But they seem to be stuck, 

Nor spit can I swallow, 

I’m down on my luck. 

My oesophagus has contracted,

At the crown!

Quick, Doctor! The laryngoscope!

Push down my tongue and have a poke!

The artichoke heart has fallen behind, 

And you just think I’ve lost my mind.