🔗 Share this article

I firmly hold the belief that it is always possible to evolve. I believe you truly can instruct a veteran learner, as long as the old dog is willing and willing to learn. As long as the old dog is prepared to acknowledge when it was wrong, and strive to be a better dog.

Alright, I confess, I am the old dog. And the skill I am trying to learn, even though I am decrepit? It is an significant challenge, an issue I have struggled with, often, for my entire life. The quest I'm on … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. Apologies to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my potential for change as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is imposing, in charge, and the one I run into regularly. This includes three times in the last week. Within my dwelling. You can’t see me, but I'm grimacing at the very thought as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but I’ve been working on at least becoming a standard level of composure about them.

I have been terrified of spiders dating back to my youth (unlike other children who are fascinated by them). During my childhood, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to make sure I never had to confront any personally, but I still freaked out if one was obviously in the general area as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and trying to deal with a spider that had made its way onto the family room partition. I “managed” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, practically in the adjoining space (lest it pursued me), and spraying half a bottle of insect spray toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and irritate everyone in my house.

As I got older, whomever I was in a relationship with or sharing a home with was, by default, the bravest of spiders in our pairing, and therefore in charge of handling the situation, while I made frightened noises and beat a hasty retreat. If I was on my own, my tactic was simply to vacate the area, turn off the light and try to erase the memory of its presence before I had to return.

In a recent episode, I was a guest at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the sill, primarily lingering. In order to be more comfortable with its presence, I imagined the spider as a her, a girlie, one of us, just relaxing in the sun and eavesdropping on us yap. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it had an impact (somewhat). Or, actively deciding 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 know huntsman spiders won’t harm me. I recognize they eat things like insect pests (creatures I despise). I am cognizant they are one of the planet's marvelous, non-threatening to people creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They propel themselves in the deeply alarming and somehow offensive way conceivable. The appearance of their multiple limbs propelling them at that frightening pace causes my caveman brain to enter panic mode. They claim to only have the typical arachnid arrangement, but I believe that increases exponentially when they are in motion.

Yet it cannot be blamed on them that they have scary legs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – if not more. I’ve found that employing the techniques of trying not to instantly leap out of my body and flee when I see one, trying to remain still and breathing, and deliberately thinking about their good points, has begun to yield results.

Simply due to the reality that they are fuzzy entities that move hastily extremely quickly in a way that haunts my sleep, is no reason for they warrant my loathing, or my high-pitched vocalizations. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and driven by baseless terror. It is uncertain I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and escorting it to the garden” level, but you never know. There’s a few years left in this old dog yet.