A Quick Reality Check

I have been working on a primer in applied existentialism for about three years now. It was supposed to be a book that could fit easily in your pocket and I was going to call it the Pocket-Sized Reality Check. I ended up typing it out a couple months ago and, now that I’m happy with the edits, I’m going to post it one section at a time with the index on this page.











10 – TAO & ZEN






Insightful Reflections from Jail


It’s taken me a lifetime to reach a level of self-awareness where I accurately know just how damaged and ignorant I really am. I have to take several psychiatric medications every day or I’ll become criminally reckless or suicidally depressed. It took me the better part of a decade to come around and realize that the pursuit of stability – marriage and kids and a house and a car – is worthwhile. I was lost in a whirlpool of depression, addiction and nihilistic philosophy that made my life stagnate and it would have continued along the same path leading nowhere if it wasn’t for a brief incarceration that set in motion a series of events culminating in the realization that the ordinary is worth achieving.

Up until August last year, I was content to just scrape by in assisted living, rent-free shitty housing, working for slave wages under an abusive sociopath. Then I got picked up by the Baltimore County warrant task force for some old warrants I thought were long forgotten. After the opiate withdrawal (I was using heroin and buprenorphine at the time), I asked to be put on an antidepressant because I was honestly so miserably depressed that I was willing to try anything to relieve it. And so an unfriendly Nigerian psychiatrist wrote me a prescription for 20 mg of Lexapro daily. And it actually worked. It really worked. Maybe it worked too well because by the time I got out, I was in a full-blown manic episode.

So with nothing to temper the mania (I was purposely not taking my mood stabilizer and antipsychotic), I went out and did a bunch of heroin when I was released. I did enough every day until I got good and addicted. One of my roommates had suggested I go to a methadone program he’d been in for a while and, after running out of money and receipts (yeah, I was stealing and committing retail fraud to buy heroin again), I went. The first day at the clinic, I was given 30 mg of methadone and, though I didn’t know it at the time, a shot at a normal life.

Eventually, my daily dose was increased to 60 mg and all the time and energy I spent getting money for dope, I channeled into work, art and winning the affection of a certain woman that absolutely enchanted me with her brilliant, feisty, confident charisma. I pursued her relentlessly and eventually won her love, but that’s a story in other entries.

It was about this time that I realized I couldn’t function as a heroin addict, but I could do pretty good for myself as a methadone addict.

I stayed on the antidepressant and after a whole series of tumultuous events as well as a brief psychiatric hospitalization, I added 1000 mg Depakote and 2 mg Risperdal each night to not only regulate my sleep but to temper the mania.

It’s been a while getting these meds right, but I think that I have. It’s also taken a lifetime finding a woman as good as Genna, but I did that too. All I want is to spend my remaining years with her.

And now, I’m ready for the next step: no more crutch of opiates – all I need is love. Well, that and the non-ruinous MCATS: marijuana, caffeine, alcohol, tobacco and sugar. I’ll have to be careful, but I think these might be enough. So while I may not have as many interesting, degenerate things to write about, I’ll be trying something that’s definitely new to me: a so-called normal life.

Fragments of Memories of Falling For Genna


  1. When messaging on Tinder and she mentioned her paper that was due and the topic was mesenchymal stem cells – that’s when she became more than just another cute face.
  2. When we talked for hours on end, never ran out of things to say and her feisty, fiery confidence challenged and captivated me – that’s when I wanted to know her completely.
  3. When we met up and I beheld her ravishing beauty with my own eyes – that’s when I started to lust for her.
  4. When we kissed the first time, with skill and passion, hope and longing, abandon and restraint – that’s when I knew I had to have her.
  5. When she made me wait to consummate our physical love, even though we both wanted it so much – that’s when I began to admire her.
  6. When we finally did fuck and it was intense and incredible and we were both skilled and compatible – that’s when I began to want her above all others.
  7. When she went above and beyond what anyone else would ever do to help me, when she gave herself and her trust to me by bailing me out of jail, by letting me keep my stuff in her car – that’s when I started to love her more than I’d ever loved anyone else.
  8. When I saw how I could make her cry with my crude selfishness – that’s when I wanted to never hurt her again and only be nice to her.
  9. When she showed me how much she loved me with every meal she brought me and with every hour she spent with me – that’s what made my love for her flourish.
  10. When she showed me in a thousand different little ways that she was the best woman I’ve ever won over, that I was worthy of her love and that I was the best she’s ever had as well – that’s when I knew we’d spend the rest of our blessed lives together.

So even though she didn’t stay with me my whole time in jail, and even though it seems like she couldn’t go more than a month without cold rationality tearing us apart in the absence of the physical intimacy that bound us together, it’s okay. I’ll become stable and self-sufficient, if that’s what she wants out of me and I’ll have her be my catalyst for change (rather than the fix) because we still have many, many years together ahead of us.

Oh, I forgot:

3(b). When I saw how fun she was and how much she could embrace spontaneity – that’s when I got as excited as a kid for all the future fun adventures we’d have.

3(c). When I was able to get her to open up artistically and she created beautiful, joyful paintings – that’s when I knew I had a lot to offer her as well.

So for these dozen reasons, and for others too small to remember specifically – all the thousands of times we’ve laughed, kissed and fucked – all the threads that form our rich tapestry of love and compatibility, I have no doubt in my mind that she’s the one. I’ll need no other woman as long as I live and I’m sure she’ll need no other man. And even though we’re apart of now, I can smile as I look forward to all the laughter, sex and adventures awaiting us.

I wrote her a letter back on January 30 where I promised her the following:

We will have a future together and even though I can’t tell you specifics like what I’ll be doing to generate my portion of our income, or what winterless spot we’ll end up calling our home, I can paint a vague abstract for you:

Laughter- Genna, we will laugh every day we are together; more than likely every time we talk for a while. And you know that one of us smiling will lift the corners of the lips of the other’s mouth.

Travel- Babe, we will see so many unexpected places and try so many new things together that one year of our adventures would be a lifetime of stories for the average human being. But not for us because we love the unexpected and we both swim comfortably in uncharted waters.

Love- Darling, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Three times a day I pray thanking God for you and your love and three times a day my heart overflows with joy and tears pour out of my eyes in a cathartic felling of the comfort and security of your love. I won’t let you slip away from me. Not ever.

Yours until the white wings of death scatter my days,

-Loyd Marquam

The Genna Saga – The Breakup


Yesterday, while I was in jail, Genna broke up with me.

I should be a lot more distraught about it, but the truth is that I’m not. The poor woman put up with so much and without the relentless dicking, her rational nature led her to the only possible conclusion: that I was too much a source of worry (and I was) and that I undermined her efforts to diet and study (which I did). So even though it was hard and sad for her, she had to try to pursue her goals at the expense of out relationship. She said I needed to be self-sufficient for us to get back together. She said it would need to be at least three years. She tearfully said she’d compare everyone else she might ever be with to me and they’d all fall short. She said I was the best lover she’s ever had and that nobody ever loved her as much as I did.

I’m not going to omit the fact that I tried to plead with her into staying together, then just keeping in contact, then just getting together briefly when I get out (“God, I want to say ‘yes,'” she said, “But no; I can’t.”) And then I told her with utter sincerity that if she thought this breakup would make her happy then I loved her too much to stand in her way.

And I know in my heart of hearts that it’s true: I couldn’t ever forget her and I’ll do anything to get her back, even if it means living a “normie” life. There’s another thing I know for sure: my exes usually remember me fondly. Yet another is that Genna and I connected on such a deep level, that our love is so profound, that I don’t doubt for an instant that we could come back together after any amount of time apart. Our souls became too enmeshed for anyone else to take the other’s place in either of our hearts. This is probably why even though I am pretty miserable about this, I still have a lot of hope that all is not lost.

I was crying too by the point where I told her that this is a big part of being an adult: doing the right thing even though it’s difficult and unpleasant. Because I could tell she didn’t want to do this. She had to. Finally, she said something that reassured me that we’ll end up back together more than anything else: she said that when we’re together we exist in a bubble – world of two that excludes the outside and is filled with joy and fun and love and that if we could live in this bubble forever, she would. But she has more she wants to accomplish first. And I have a lot of work to do before I’m worthy of her.

Losing Everything While Smiling Serenely

There is a certain peace and relief that comes along with loss. Once something is gone, you don’t have to worry about it anymore. And if you’re able to let go and realize that most things can be replaced, then you’re just fine coming out with nothing. So I’m pretty sure I lost Genna. I don’t know for sure yet. We’ll speak again on Thursday and today is Sunday. But she’s doing what she said she does when she’s done with a guy. Ignoring my calls. Actually, ignoring all calls from any number she doesn’t know. And that’s okay. I might have crossed the line when I talked to her mom without her permission. Well, to be honest, with Genna begging me to stop. But all I told Mama T is that I loved her daughter. That I gave her a nice sterling silver ring with gold accents and a 3 carat emerald on it. She said that was nice.

She told me to get stabilized.

That there is no way to function without being medicated.

Not for the mentally ill like us. Teresa and I. Not Genna. She’s just got a few control and laziness issues. But her biggest problem is that she always wants to be in control. And I think this stems from the fact that she doesn’t have any faith in a higher power. She’s her own God. And this is wrong. That’s one reason it won’t work between us. She sees events where I see blessings.

Also, she’s used to being the smarter one in a relationship and she is not smarter than me.

Also, she’s used to being in control of a relationship and that is something that I don’t allow.

I’ve been thinking about me and Genna a long time.

There’s a lot of time to think in an institution.

I’m getting stable. Starting to get medicated, even though it’s too late.

Genna has had enough. I’m too much to handle, for even more reasons than these.

And I’ll never be a partner to her; I’ll always be one of her clients.

Someone she has to help.

Something she has to fix.

She wants me to have a normal job, even if I hate it.


Not going to happen.

I’ll paint and tattoo and hustle, but I do not want a boss or a manager.

And I don’t want to be fixed.

I’ll be fine with just being functional.

I don’t want a 9 to 5 job I hate.

I couldn’t care less about having a house.

Or a car.

Or a family.

I don’t even care if I live or die.

And right about now, I’d welcome death with open arms. That doesn’t mean to say I’m going to off myself.

I won’t.

It’s just that I sometimes walk in front of a car speeding down the street and yell at them as they slam on their brakes or swerve around me that they’d be doing me a fucking favor if they hit me.

I’ve let go.


So I can lose everything and still smile because it doesn’t matter.

Anything from a store can be bought again.

And I’ll do more paintings and journals.

And get another copy of my legal papers.

That’s the key to life: you have to be willing to give everything you have at any time.

Then you’ll get anything you’ll ever need.

Cycling Up – Genna Angel

From Journal Entry dated 12/2/15

“Nobody care about you.  If you die, nobody notice. If you go to jail, nobody bail you out.”

Maybe once, asshole. Maybe a year ago, this is true, prick.  But not anymore.  Genna paid $360 to bail me out of city jail yesterday.  And I wrote her a thank you card with a poem/song for her.

I’d been singing an iteration of this song for days.  Sometimes at the top of my lungs.  And it’s still not a fully fleshed-out song; it needs work, but I got it.

What I ain’t got, is my phone.  Fucking knockers got that somewhere, and I can’t even call the cocksucking arresting officer to get it until tomorrow.

What I did get was a pair of Underamour running shoes in my size, a Nike duffel bag, UA shorts, and a really comfy royal purple golf shirt on the sidewalk on Chesterfield Rd.

Old man upstairs is really looking out for me.

And I have my honey sweetie pie baby darling apple of my eye Genna – officially my gf since November 23 – coming over tonight to drink and play.

What I did was promise her that I wouldn’t commit crimes anymore.  Of course I was locked up.  So I would have promised just about anything to her at the time.

But this promise, I mean to keep.

I have broken so many in the past, but that was dope fiend shit.  I’m not that guy anymore.  I’m Recovering Addict Loyd, a man of formidable talent and charisma, who serves God first, my queen Genna second, and my self and everyone else third.

And God’s been looking out for me.

As in, I gave up dope, and got Genna.

As in I gave up stealing, and got the best groundscore ever.

As in I  gave up being morbidly depressed, and with Lexapro, I’m having a hypomanic artistic renaissance.

As in I am in the flow, the tao, so thoroughly, I can’t help, but weep with joy when I give my prayer of gratitude in the morning.

As in my daily affirmation: I am amazing, and worthy of love, instead of my self loathing diatribes of worthlessness and suicidal ideation.

As in Fuck Yea, I’m going to make it; Everything is going to be great, and Genna and I will rise together on wings of love to ascend to the eye level of God, and give the old man upstairs a dap.

As in  this entry – which while brief – is dripping with manic energy and love – love for God, for Genna, and, finally, for myself.




Time and Inevitability

I just turned 32 years old.

I look around and see how much some friends my age have accomplished. Finished their PhD. Started a business. Added another kid to their family.

And yet I have nothing.

And I can blame the diagnosis I’ve been given.

That this is just the depression and that being unproductive and isolating are just outward manifestations of an inevitable unbalanced neurochemistry.

And that just seems so fucking unsatisfactory.

So many people have accomplished greater creative works than I can ever even hope to achieve years before they became this old.

And here I am.


Still unknown.

Still insignificant.

Still content to wallow in self-pity, making excuses, using escapism as a daily coping mechanism.

And I’m not creating anything, either.

There’s no graphic work of mine dated 2015.

And yet I still can’t bring myself to take that brush to the canvas…


The Artist’s Mission

First of all, I’ll open with this bit from Alex Grey:


Creator of the Universe,
How infinite and astonishing
Are your worlds.
Thank you,
For your Sacred Art
And sustaining Presence.

Divine Imagination,
Forgive my blindness,
Open all my Eyes.
Reveal the Light of Truth.
Let original Beauty
Guide my every stroke.

Universal Creativity,
Flow through me,
From my heart
Through my mind to my hand,
Infuse my work with spirit
To feed hungry souls.

Words are cheap.

I can make marks on paper out of my thoughts so I guess I’m an artist.

The point is that I think I’m too busy living to write.

I write when I have down time – time to just chill.

I don’t have much down time lately; I’m always up up up.

And the truth is, I’d rather scavenge cigarettes than write.

So that’s what I do with a fair percentage of my day when I could be writing in this notebook I always fucking carry around.

With my fucking pen, of course.

Because you never know when you’ll have to draw a sad, boxy-looking robot in some random dude’s sketchbook at Comicon saying – and I quote, “I wasn’t always sad but upon gaining sentience, I discovered the futility of existence and I became extremely depressed.”

Dude’s supposed to friend me on Facebook.

So I found out how I woke up in the emergency room at University Hospital the other night.

Turns out I got shitfaced drunk after buying a National Bohemian 12 pack I was handing out at Otakon, faceplanted on the sidewalk and had to have an ambulance called for my drunk ass.


My bad.

I’d give a fuck, but I’ve been out of them since 2007.

So this random homeless dude put my glasses on my shirt and that’s why I’m wearing them right now.

Dude’s name’s Country.

Dude’s cool as fuck.

I met an incredibly hot Hawaiian/Puertorican girl named Daisha when I was hospitalized at Sheppard Pratt in Ellicot City getting myself restabilized on my meds after losing them at Otakon and going full-blown manic.

I tried talking to Daisha, but she never picked up the second time I called her.

She was so pretty.

And so damaged.

I could’ve fallen in love.

So I’m writing this in a day planner and there are so many days left.

I’m on the page for 8/15 right now and it’s September fucking fifth!

And there are just huge deserts of empty pages because I haven’t been writing.

So I felt guilty.

And I wrote this.

And I did a couple drawings today too.

So I guess I’m an artist.

It’s what artists do: