I really wanted to write something along the lines of “COVID-19: One year later,” but honestly, what the hell can you even say about it?

Statistics?

There have been over 117 million cases worldwide, over 2.6 million deaths.

Locally, 1.2 million cases in Los Angeles County, including over 22,000 deaths.

In Downey, over 17,000 cases and 268 of our neighbors gone.

That said, I’m not truthfully sure when the seriousness of the pandemic finally resonated with me.

I remember telling a coworker that younger individuals like she and I likely had nothing to worry about. (In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t said that.)

I remember Eric sending me to take pictures of the tent that went up in front of Kaiser, and the hospital playing it off as just part of a drill.

I remember sitting at the Downey Unified School District office, moaning, groaning, and complaining to myself that a huge decision like the closing of schools shouldn’t be discussed behind closed session doors.

It was supposed to be two weeks. “Two weeks to slow the spread” they said.

In the meantime, we put our medical frontliners and essential workers on a pedestal, praising them for their dedication and sacrifice in the face of a new, relatively unknown foe.

But while we celebrated those individuals out of one side of our mouths, we planned our beach trips and argued the necessity of masks out of the other.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I have spent much of the last year either helplessly afraid or inconsolably angry.

An anxious person already by nature, I think that I did okay maintaining my composure for the first two to three months of this strange, new reality.

Then one day, I found myself caught in a small space with a couple of people not wearing masks.

For some reason, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Something within me cracked, and I became overly obsessed on the health of my loved ones and myself.

I started wearing two to three masks when I had to go out.

I stopped doing any shopping in person and began relying solely on Door Dash and Amazon.

I did my damndest to keep my work at home and away from other people, including conducting phone interviews and having photos submitted when possible.

I kid you not that I started taking my temperature no less than 20 times a day. I had a regular flow of gum and mints on hand too, to test my senses of smell and taste.

Was it an across-the-board overreaction? Oh, most certainly so.

But by that point I had had several friends become sick (thankfully none seriously at that time), and I refused to take that same chance with my family.

My household and I have managed to stay healthy, thank God. My mother is even fully vaccinated, another blessing.

Now like many of you, I am awaiting my turn to have someone put a needle in my arm.

Even still, I find vaccinations and declining case rates to be of little comfort to me.

I’m sorry if I sound bitter or cynical, but if I’m being honest with you, I am.

Bitter that I will never get to talk Dodgers or Downey news with Pat McCallum ever again. Bitter that my Uncle Fred – who was a preacher – will not be there to officiate my wedding (if I ever get married) like I had always planned.

Bitter over how little time I have spent with my niece Emma and nephew Ethan over the last year.

Bitter over the wedge I put between my Uncle Chazz and Aunt Anna and my mother and I, for fear of any of us getting sick.

Bitter over the year of all our lives that got stolen away from all of us with no chance of a do-over.

Just bitter.

If it is any comfort to you the reader, I have no visions of grandeur or glory of my words here changing any minds or winning any awards. That’s not why I sat down and started writing today; this isn’t meant to be journalism, it’s meant to be reality.

The truth is I’m just tired. The pandemic fatigue has long set in, and my nerves are shot.

I know how close we are to being through this, but I miss my family.

I miss my friends.

I’m tired of being afraid.

And I just needed to tell someone about it.