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I maintain the conviction that it is always possible to change. I believe you absolutely are able to train a seasoned creature, as long as the old dog is open-minded and eager for knowledge. Provided that the individual in question is willing to admit when it was wrong, and work to become a better dog.

Well, admittedly, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am working to acquire, despite the fact that I am set in my ways? It is an major undertaking, an issue I have battled against, frequently, for my all my days. My ongoing effort … to become less scared of those large arachnids. My regrets to all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my capacity for development as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is sizeable, in charge, and the one I encounter most often. Including a trio of instances in the recent past. In my own living space. I'm not visible to you, but a shudder runs through me with discomfort as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I’ve been working on at least becoming Normal about them.

I have been terrified of spiders since I was a child (in contrast to other children who adore them). Growing up, I had plenty of male siblings around to ensure I never had to confront any personally, but I still panicked if one was obviously in the same room as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family slumbering on, and attempting to manage a spider that had crawled on to the lounge-room wall. I “dealt” with it by standing incredibly far away, practically in the adjoining space (in case it chased me), and emptying half a bottle of pesticide toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and annoy everyone in my house.

In my adult life, whoever I was dating or living with was, automatically, the most courageous of spiders in our pairing, and therefore in charge of dealing with it, while I produced frightened noises and fled the scene. When finding myself alone, my method was simply to leave the room, turn off the light and try to ignore its existence before I had to return.

In a recent episode, I was a guest at a companion's home where there was a very large huntsman who made its home in the sill, primarily stationary. As a means to be more comfortable with its presence, I conceptualized the spider as a 'girlie', a one of the girls, in our circle, just relaxing in the sun and listening to us chat. This may seem extremely dumb, but it was effective (a little bit). Alternatively, actively deciding to become more fearless did the trick.

Regardless, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I think about all the logical reasons not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I understand they eat things like flies and mosquitoes (creatures I despise). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, non-threatening to people creatures.

Unfortunately, however, they do continue to walk like that. They travel in the utterly horrifying and almost unjust way conceivable. The vision of their multiple limbs transporting them at that alarming velocity induces my primordial instincts to go into high alert. They claim to only have a standard octet of limbs, but I am convinced that multiplies when they move.

Yet it isn’t their fault that they have scary legs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I’ve found that employing the techniques of trying not to immediately exit my own skin and flee when I see one, working to keep calm and collected, and consciously focusing about their good points, has actually started to help.

Simply due to the reality that they are furry beings that dart around extremely quickly in a way that invades my dreams, is no reason for they deserve my hatred, or my shrieks of terror. It is possible to acknowledge when I’ve been wrong and fueled by irrational anxiety. I doubt I’ll ever make it to the “trapping one under a cup and relocating it outdoors” phase, but miracles happen. A bit of time remains left in this veteran of life yet.