I firmly hold the belief that it is never too late to evolve. I believe you truly can train a seasoned creature, provided that the mature being is open-minded and eager for knowledge. So long as the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was mistaken, and endeavor to transform into a better dog.
OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am working to acquire, even though I am set in my ways? It is an significant challenge, a feat I have battled against, repeatedly, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to grow less fearful of the common huntsman. My regrets to all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be realistic about my possible growth as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. Encompassing a trio of instances in the last week. Within my dwelling. You can’t see me, but a shudder runs through me with discomfort as I type.
I doubt I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I’ve been working on at least becoming a baseline of normalcy about them.
I have been terrified of spiders from my earliest years (unlike other children who adore them). During my childhood, I had ample brothers around to guarantee I never had to confront any personally, but I still became hysterical if one was visibly in the general area as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the family room partition. I “dealt” with it by standing incredibly far away, practically in the adjoining space (in case it pursued me), and spraying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and disturb everyone in my house.
With the passage of time, whomever I was in a relationship with or sharing a home with was, automatically, the bravest of spiders in our pairing, and therefore in charge of dealing with it, while I emitted whimpers of distress and fled the scene. When finding myself alone, my strategy was simply to leave the room, plunge the room into darkness and try to forget about its being before I had to enter again.
Recently, I was a guest at a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who made its home in the window frame, primarily stationary. As a means to be less scared of it, I conceptualized the spider as a 'girlie', a gal, one of us, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. Admittedly, it appears rather silly, but it was effective (somewhat). Put another way, actively deciding to become less scared worked.
Regardless, I've made an effort to continue. I contemplate all the logical reasons not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I know they consume things like buzzing nuisances (the bane of my existence). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.
Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They propel themselves in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way conceivable. The vision of their many legs propelling them at that frightening pace causes my caveman brain to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I believe that increases exponentially when they move.
However it is no fault of their own that they have scary legs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. My experience has shown that employing the techniques of working to prevent have a visceral panic reaction and flee when I see one, working to keep still and breathing, and deliberately thinking about their good points, 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 causes me nocturnal distress, does not justify they merit my intense dislike, or my girly screams. I am willing to confess when my reactions have been misguided and fueled by unfounded fear. It is uncertain I’ll ever make it to the “catching one in a Tupperware container and relocating it outdoors” phase, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains for this old dog yet.
