Here's an Tiny Fear I Aim to Overcome. I Will Never Be a Fan, but Can I at the Very Least Be Calm Concerning Spiders?

I firmly hold the belief that it is forever an option to transform. My view is you can in fact teach an old dog new tricks, on the condition that the experienced individual is willing and willing to learn. So long as the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was in error, and endeavor to transform into a better dog.

Alright, I confess, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am attempting to master, although I am set in my ways? It is an significant challenge, an issue I have battled against, often, for my entire life. I have been trying … to become less scared of the common huntsman. My regrets to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my potential for change as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is imposing, commanding, and the one I encounter most often. This includes three times in the recent past. Within my dwelling. Though unseen, but I'm grimacing and grimacing as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I’ve been working on at least achieving a standard level of composure about them.

I have been terrified of spiders dating back to my youth (unlike other children who find them delightful). During my childhood, I had plenty of male siblings around to ensure I never had to confront any myself, but I still became hysterical if one was obviously in the same room as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and trying to deal with a spider that had made its way onto the living room surface. I “dealt” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, nearly crossing the threshold (in case it pursued me), and discharging a significant portion of insect spray toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it did reach and annoy everyone in my house.

As I got older, whoever I was dating or cohabiting with was, automatically, the bravest of spiders between us, and therefore responsible for managing the intruder, while I emitted low keening sounds and fled the scene. If I was on my own, my method was simply to leave the room, turn off the light and try to forget about its existence before I had to return.

Not long ago, I stayed at a pal's residence where there was a notably big huntsman who lived in the window frame, primarily stationary. As a means to be less scared of it, I imagined the spider as a 'girlie', a gal, one of us, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. It sounds extremely dumb, but it was effective (to some degree). Alternatively, the deliberate resolution to become less scared worked.

Be that as it may, I've made an effort to continue. I think about all the logical reasons not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they eat things like buzzing nuisances (creatures I despise). It is well-established they are one of the planet's marvelous, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to walk like that. They propel themselves in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way conceivable. The vision of their many legs carrying them at that frightening pace induces my caveman brain to kick into overdrive. They are said to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I believe that multiplies when they are in motion.

Yet it is no fault of their own that they have scary legs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. I have discovered that taking the steps of working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and flee when I see one, trying to remain still and breathing, and deliberately thinking about their beneficial attributes, has actually started to help.

Simply due to the reality that they are hairy creatures that dart around at an alarming rate in a way that haunts my sleep, is no reason for they deserve my hatred, or my girly screams. It is possible to acknowledge when my reactions have been misguided and fueled by unfounded fear. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “scooping one into plasticware and escorting it to the garden” phase, but miracles happen. Some life is left within this old dog yet.