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I maintain the conviction that it is forever an option to evolve. I think you can in fact teach an old dog new tricks, as long as the mature being is receptive and ready for growth. So long as the old dog is ready to confess when it was wrong, and strive to be a more enlightened self.

Alright, I confess, I am the old dog. And the lesson I am trying to learn, despite the fact that I am set in my ways? It is an major undertaking, something I have battled against, repeatedly, for my whole existence. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward those large arachnids. My regrets to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be grounded about my possible growth as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is imposing, in charge, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. This includes on three separate occasions in the last week. Within my dwelling. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me and grimacing as I type.

I doubt I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least becoming Normal about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders dating back to my youth (in contrast to other children who are fascinated by them). During my childhood, I had ample brothers around to guarantee I never had to handle any myself, but I still became hysterical if one was clearly in the same room as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family still asleep, and trying to deal with a spider that had crawled on to the family room partition. I “handled” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, practically in the adjoining space (in case it pursued me), and emptying a generous amount of insect spray toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it managed to annoy and annoy everyone in my house.

As I got older, my romantic partner at the time or living with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore responsible for handling the situation, while I produced whimpers of distress and fled the scene. In moments of solitude, my method was simply to vacate the area, douse the illumination and try to ignore its existence before I had to re-enter.

In a recent episode, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who resided within the casement, primarily stationary. As a means to be more comfortable with its presence, I imagined the spider as a her, a girlie, part of the group, just lounging in the sun and eavesdropping on us chat. It sounds extremely dumb, but it was effective (a little bit). Or, the deliberate resolution to become less phobic did the trick.

Regardless, I've made an effort to continue. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders won’t harm me. I recognize they eat things like flies and mosquitoes (the bane of my existence). It is well-established they are one of nature’s beautiful, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Alas, they do continue to scuttle like that. They move in the utterly horrifying and somehow offensive way possible. The appearance of their many legs propelling them at that terrible speed induces my ancient psyche to go into high alert. They ostensibly only have eight legs, but I believe that multiplies when they are in motion.

However it isn’t their fault that they have unnerving limbs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – if not more. I’ve found that taking the steps of working to prevent instantly leap out of my body and flee when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their beneficial attributes, has begun to yield results.

Just because they are fuzzy entities that move hastily at an alarming rate in a way that haunts my sleep, doesn’t mean they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. I am willing to confess when I’ve been wrong and driven by baseless terror. I’m not sure I’ll ever attain the “scooping one into plasticware and escorting it to the garden” level, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains for this seasoned learner yet.