🔗 Share this article

I am someone who believes that it is never too late to transform. I think you truly can teach an old dog new tricks, provided that the mature being is willing and ready for growth. As long as the person is ready to confess when it was mistaken, and endeavor to transform into a improved version.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am working to acquire, although I am decrepit? It is an significant challenge, a feat I have grappled with, often, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to become less scared of the common huntsman. My regrets to all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth 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. Inside my home. Though unseen, but I’m shaking my head and grimacing as I type.

I doubt I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least becoming Normal about them.

I have been terrified of spiders since I was a child (in contrast to other children who adore them). Growing up, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to ensure I never had to confront any myself, but I still panicked if one was visibly in the same room as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and trying to deal with a spider that had ascended the family room partition. I “managed” with it by retreating to a remote corner, nearly crossing the threshold (for fear that it pursued me), and emptying a significant portion of insect spray toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it did reach and disturb everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whomever I was in a relationship with or cohabiting with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore tasked with managing the intruder, while I emitted frightened noises and ran away. When finding myself alone, my strategy was simply to vacate the area, douse the illumination and try to ignore its existence before I had to return.

Recently, I was a guest at a pal's residence where there was a very large huntsman who resided within the casement, primarily lingering. In order to be more comfortable with its presence, I imagined the spider as a her, a gal, in our circle, just relaxing in the sun and listening to us chat. Admittedly, it appears quite foolish, but it was effective (somewhat). Put another way, making a conscious choice to become less scared did the trick.

Be that as it may, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the sensible justifications not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I understand they eat things like flies and mosquitoes (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, non-threatening to people creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They travel in the utterly horrifying and almost unjust way possible. The sight of their many legs transporting them at that terrible speed induces my caveman brain to kick into overdrive. They claim to only have eight legs, but I am convinced that triples when they get going.

However it isn’t their fault that they have scary legs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. I have discovered that employing the techniques of making an effort to avoid immediately exit my own skin and flee when I see one, working to keep calm and collected, and deliberately thinking about their good points, has begun to yield results.

Just because they are hairy creatures that move hastily at an alarming rate in a way that haunts my sleep, doesn’t mean they merit my intense dislike, or my shrieks of terror. I am willing to confess when my reactions have been misguided and motivated by irrational anxiety. I’m not sure I’ll ever make it to the “trapping one under a cup and relocating it outdoors” stage, but one can't be sure. A bit of time remains within this old dog yet.