Here's an Itsy-Bitsy Anxiety I Want to Conquer. I'll Never Adore Them, but Can I at the Very Least Be Calm About Spiders?
I maintain the conviction that it is always possible to transform. I think you can in fact instruct a veteran learner, on the condition that the mature being is willing and willing to learn. So long as the old dog is prepared to acknowledge when it was wrong, and strive to be a improved version.
Alright, I confess, I am the old dog. And the lesson I am trying to learn, despite the fact that I am a creature of habit? It is an important one, a feat I have grappled with, repeatedly, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to become less scared of those large arachnids. Apologies to all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be grounded about my possible growth as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is large, in charge, and the one I encounter most often. This includes three times in the previous seven days. Within my dwelling. Though unseen, but I’m shaking my head at the very thought as I type.
I doubt I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but my project has been at least becoming a baseline of normalcy about them.
A deep-seated fear of spiders dating back to my youth (as opposed to other children who find them delightful). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to guarantee I never had to engage with any directly, 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 attempting to manage a spider that had crawled on to the living room surface. I “managed” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, nearly crossing the threshold (lest it ran after me), and emptying a generous amount of bug repellent toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it did reach and disturb everyone in my house.
As I got older, whoever I was dating or sharing a home with was, by default, the least afraid of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore tasked with dealing with it, while I emitted whimpers of distress and fled the scene. If I was on my own, my strategy was simply to exit the space, plunge the room into darkness and try to erase the memory of its presence before I had to return.
In a recent episode, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who made its home in the sill, mostly just lingering. To be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a her, a gal, one of us, just lounging in the sun and listening to us yap. This may seem quite foolish, but it worked (to some degree). Or, actively deciding to become less scared worked.
Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the logical reasons not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I recognize they prey upon things like insect pests (the bane of my existence). I know they are one of the world's exquisite, non-threatening to people creatures.
Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They travel in the most terrifying and somehow offensive way conceivable. The appearance of their many legs transporting them at that alarming velocity triggers my ancient psyche to kick into overdrive. They are said to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I am convinced that multiplies when they get going.
However it cannot be blamed on them that they have unnerving limbs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. My experience has shown that implementing the strategy of making an effort to avoid instantly leap out of my body and retreat when I see one, working to keep composed and breathing steadily, and intentionally reflecting about their beneficial attributes, has proven somewhat effective.
Just because they are hairy creatures that scuttle about extremely quickly in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, does not justify they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. It is possible to acknowledge when fear has clouded my judgment and motivated by unfounded fear. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “catching one in a Tupperware container and escorting it to the garden” level, but you never know. There’s a few years for this veteran of life yet.
