🔗 Share this article

I am someone who believes that it is never too late to change. I think you can in fact teach an old dog new tricks, on the condition that the old dog is receptive and eager for knowledge. So long as the individual in question is ready to confess when it was in error, and strive to be a improved version.

Alright, I confess, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am attempting to master, even though I am decrepit? It is an major undertaking, something I have struggled with, repeatedly, for my all my days. My ongoing effort … to become less scared of those large arachnids. Apologies to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my capacity for development as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is imposing, dominant, and the one I run into regularly. Encompassing on three separate occasions in the recent past. Within my dwelling. Though unseen, but I'm grimacing with discomfort as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but my project has been at least becoming a baseline of normalcy about them.

I have been terrified of spiders since I was a child (in contrast to other children who are fascinated by them). Growing up, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to guarantee I never had to handle any directly, but I still freaked out if one was clearly in the general area as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had crawled on to the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, practically in the adjoining space (lest it pursued me), and discharging a generous amount of pesticide toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it did reach and annoy everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whoever I was dating or sharing a home with was, as a matter of course, the most courageous of spiders in our pairing, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I made whimpers of distress and beat a hasty retreat. In moments of solitude, my strategy was simply to vacate the area, plunge the room into darkness and try to erase the memory of its being before I had to return.

In a recent episode, I was a guest at a friend’s house where there was a very large huntsman who resided within the sill, primarily hanging out. To be more comfortable with its presence, I conceptualized the spider as a her, a gal, in our circle, just lounging in the sun and overhearing us yap. Admittedly, it appears quite foolish, but it was effective (to some degree). Or, making a conscious choice to become less phobic did the trick.

Regardless, I've made an effort to continue. I contemplate all the rational arguments not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I recognize they consume things like flies and mosquitoes (the bane of my existence). I know they are one of the world's exquisite, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They travel in the utterly horrifying and borderline immoral way conceivable. The sight of their multiple limbs transporting them at that frightening pace causes my ancient psyche to kick into overdrive. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I am convinced that multiplies when they move.

But it cannot be blamed on them that they have frightening appendages, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. I’ve found that employing the techniques of making an effort to avoid have a visceral panic reaction and retreat when I see one, working to keep still and breathing, and deliberately thinking about their good points, has begun to yield results.

Simply due to the reality that they are furry beings that dart around extremely quickly in a way that haunts my sleep, is no reason for they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. It is possible to acknowledge when my reactions have been misguided and fueled by irrational anxiety. It is uncertain I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and escorting it to the garden” stage, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains within this veteran of life yet.