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I firmly hold the belief that it is always possible to transform. My view is you can in fact instruct a veteran learner, provided that the mature being is willing and willing to learn. As long as the old dog is ready to confess when it was mistaken, and strive to be a improved version.

OK yes, I am that seasoned creature. And the trick I am attempting to master, even though I am decrepit? It is an major undertaking, an issue I have struggled with, repeatedly, for my whole existence. My ongoing effort … to become less scared of huntsman spiders. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be realistic about my potential for change as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I run into regularly. Encompassing on three separate occasions in the previous seven days. Inside my home. I'm not visible to you, but I’m shaking my head and grimacing as I type.

I doubt I’ll ever reach “fan” status, but I’ve been working on at least achieving a standard level of composure about them.

I have been terrified of spiders since I was a child (in contrast to other children who adore them). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to ensure I never had to handle any personally, but I still panicked 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 trying to deal with a spider that had made its way onto the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by standing incredibly far away, nearly crossing the threshold (for fear that it pursued me), and emptying a generous amount of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it managed to annoy and annoy everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whomever I was in a relationship with or living with was, automatically, the bravest of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I emitted frightened noises and ran away. If I was on my own, my tactic was simply to leave the room, douse the illumination and try to erase the memory of its presence before I had to enter again.

Recently, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who made its home in the window frame, mostly just lingering. In order to be less fearful, I imagined the spider as a 'girlie', a one of the girls, in our circle, just relaxing in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. Admittedly, it appears extremely dumb, but it had an impact (to some degree). Put another way, actively deciding to become less scared did the trick.

Be that as it may, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I reflect upon all the logical reasons not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders won’t harm me. I know they eat things like insect pests (creatures I despise). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They propel themselves in the utterly horrifying and borderline immoral way possible. The appearance of their multiple limbs transporting them at that frightening pace triggers my primordial instincts to go into high alert. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I maintain that increases exponentially when they are in motion.

However it isn’t their fault that they have unnerving limbs, and they have an equal entitlement to be where I am – perhaps even more so. I’ve found that employing the techniques of working to prevent have a visceral panic reaction and run away when I see one, working to keep still and breathing, and deliberately thinking about their beneficial attributes, has begun to yield results.

Simply due to the reality that they are fuzzy entities that dart around at an alarming rate in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, is no reason for they merit my intense dislike, or my shrieks of terror. I am willing to confess 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” phase, but miracles happen. There’s a few years left in this old dog yet.