Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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The flight to Toronto is the first time I ever see Rosie have a panic attack in public – and when I learn what her anxiety looks like when it's manifested itself into a public outcry. It's not like I've never seen her have one before; we do spend pretty much every waking minute of our lives together, so I definitely have.
But as anyone that's close to someone with severe anxiety can tell you – what goes on, on the inside versus the outside, can be worlds apart. Like when Rosie's hyperventilating at home because she's freaking out about something that even she can't put her finger on – but we're in the comfort of our own bedroom, so we have the privacy that she needs.
Whereas when we're stuck on a cramped airplane with crying babies, loud chewers, and people that drape their hair over the back of their seats, it's a little more difficult to have that same privacy feeling. In fact, the only way I know something's wrong, is because – like I said, I spend all my time with her, and whenever Rosie goes quiet, I know something's wrong.
Whether that's her having an anxiety attack, or being mad at me for something I did, is usually left for me to figure out.
"Rosie? Are you okay?" I ask her, noticing the way she's been cracking her knuckles like they're those groundhog heads that pop out at the arcade machine. She's deathly silent, her gaze fixated on the blank screen in front of us, for the last twenty minutes.
We were watching Jurassic Park, but then she wanted to stop the movie and I thought she was just tired and wanted to sleep. Now, I realize it's because she was never really watching the movie in the first place. Just trying to distract herself from the imminent danger that is feeling like she's about to lose her life.
"I'm fine." She snaps, to the average person sounding more like she's snapping because she's irritated with me, rather than being irritable because of her anxiety. It doesn't necessarily make it feel any better when you have someone you love acting like that, but it does make it easier to understand and accept.
She's usually always really apologetic after; and it's not like she says anything actually mean to me, she's just a little more moody than usual. But you didn't hear that last part from me.
"You sure?" I ask, studying her cautiously as I put my hand on her thigh. She's wearing these nice Lululemon leggings – and I say nice because they're, well, leggings. And as any man on the face of the planet – with full eyesight or not, will tell you, leggings are god's greatest gift to man.
And sex, but mostly leggings.
"I just...don't feel very well." She admits after a few minutes of me looking at her and her staring at the nothingness between us. She doesn't need to explain any more for me to know exactly what she means – or at least, have a pretty good idea.
All morning, it's been kind of crazy. Being at the airport on Christmas eve isn't exactly the best idea, but given that we played our last game before the holiday break yesterday, we didn't exactly have a choice. Thank you, National Hockey League.
