I am someone who believes that it is never too late to transform. I believe you truly can teach an old dog new tricks, on the condition that the experienced individual is willing and willing to learn. Provided that the old dog is willing to admit when it was in error, and endeavor to transform into a improved version.
OK yes, I am the old dog. And the trick I am attempting to master, although I am a creature of habit? It is an major undertaking, something I have struggled with, frequently, for my all my days. My ongoing effort … to develop a calmer response toward those large arachnids. Apologies to all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be grounded about my potential for change as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is large, in charge, and the one I encounter most often. Encompassing on three separate occasions in the recent past. Inside my home. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me at the very thought as I type.
I doubt I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but my project has been at least becoming Normal about them.
I have been terrified of spiders from my earliest years (in contrast to other children who find them delightful). In my formative years, I had plenty of male siblings around to ensure I never had to engage with any directly, but I still freaked out if one was clearly in the immediate vicinity as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and trying to deal with a spider that had ascended the living room surface. I “dealt” with it by retreating to a remote corner, practically in the adjoining space (in case it ran after me), and emptying a significant portion of bug repellent toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it did reach and annoy everyone in my house.
In my adult life, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders between us, and therefore tasked with managing the intruder, while I made frightened noises and fled the scene. In moments of solitude, my method was simply to exit the space, douse the illumination and try to forget about its being before I had to return.
In a recent episode, I visited a friend’s house where there was a very large huntsman who made its home in the window frame, primarily stationary. As a means to be less fearful, I conceptualized the spider as a female entity, a girlie, one of us, just relaxing in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it was effective (to some degree). Alternatively, actively deciding to become less scared did the trick.
Regardless, I've made an effort to continue. I think about all the rational arguments not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I recognize they eat things like buzzing nuisances (creatures I despise). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, benign creatures.
Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They move in the utterly horrifying and borderline immoral way possible. The sight of their multiple limbs carrying them at that frightening pace induces my caveman brain to go into high alert. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I believe that triples when they get going.
But it isn’t their fault 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 working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and run away when I see one, attempting to stay composed and breathing steadily, and intentionally reflecting about their good points, has proven somewhat effective.
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 shrieks of terror. I am willing to confess when I’ve been wrong and driven by baseless terror. I’m not sure I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and relocating it outdoors” phase, but one can't be sure. There’s a few years within this veteran of life yet.
