🔗 Share this article

I firmly hold the belief that it is never too late to change. My view is you truly can teach an old dog new tricks, as long as the old dog is willing and ready for growth. As long as the old dog is willing to admit when it was wrong, and strive to be a improved version.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am working to acquire, although I am set in my ways? It is an important one, an issue I have struggled with, repeatedly, for my entire life. The quest I'm on … to grow less fearful of huntsman spiders. Apologies to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is large, dominant, and the one I encounter most often. Encompassing three times in the last week. In my own living space. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me with discomfort as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but my project has been at least achieving a standard level of composure about them.

I have been terrified of spiders from my earliest years (in contrast to other children who find them delightful). Growing up, I had ample brothers around to ensure I never had to handle any myself, but I still became hysterical if one was visibly in the immediate vicinity as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had crawled on to the lounge-room wall. I “handled” with it by retreating to a remote corner, practically in the adjoining space (in case it pursued me), and emptying a significant portion of insect spray toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it managed to annoy and annoy everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whoever I was dating or cohabiting with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore in charge of handling the situation, while I produced low keening sounds and beat a hasty retreat. In moments of solitude, my tactic was simply to exit the space, plunge the room into darkness and try to ignore its existence before I had to return.

In a recent episode, I visited a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who resided within the sill, mostly just hanging out. To be more comfortable with its presence, I conceptualized the spider as a female entity, a gal, one of us, just relaxing in the sun and listening to us chat. This may seem quite foolish, but it had an impact (somewhat). Alternatively, the deliberate resolution to become less phobic did the trick.

Whatever the case, I’ve tried to keep it up. I reflect upon all the logical reasons not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they consume things like buzzing nuisances (creatures I despise). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to walk like that. They travel in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way possible. The appearance of their many legs transporting them at that terrible speed causes my caveman brain to go into high alert. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I am convinced that increases exponentially when they get going.

But it cannot be blamed on them that they have frightening appendages, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. My experience has shown that taking the steps of working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and retreat when I see one, working to keep composed and breathing steadily, and deliberately thinking about their positive qualities, has begun to yield results.

The mere fact that they are furry beings that dart around at an alarming rate in a way that haunts my sleep, does not justify they deserve my hatred, or my high-pitched vocalizations. It is possible to acknowledge when my reactions have been misguided and motivated by baseless terror. I doubt 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 old dog yet.