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I am someone who believes that it is always possible to evolve. I think you can in fact train a seasoned creature, on the condition that the experienced individual is receptive and ready for growth. Provided that the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was mistaken, and endeavor to transform into a improved version.

Well, admittedly, I am the old dog. And the lesson I am working to acquire, even though I am a creature of habit? It is an major undertaking, an issue I have battled against, repeatedly, for my entire life. My ongoing effort … to become less scared of those large arachnids. Pardon me, all the remaining arachnid species that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my potential for change as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is sizeable, commanding, and the one I run into regularly. Encompassing three times in the last week. Inside my home. Though unseen, but a shudder runs through me with discomfort as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but my project has been at least achieving Normal about them.

I have been terrified of spiders dating back to my youth (in contrast to other children who find them delightful). Growing up, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to guarantee I never had to handle any directly, but I still panicked if one was visibly in the same room as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and trying to deal with a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “handled” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, almost into the next room (for fear that it chased me), and spraying a significant portion of bug repellent toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it did reach and annoy everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, whoever I was dating or sharing a home with was, automatically, the bravest of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore responsible for managing the intruder, while I made low keening sounds and ran away. If I was on my own, my method was simply to vacate the area, douse the illumination and try to ignore its being before I had to re-enter.

In a recent episode, I was a guest at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the casement, mostly just stationary. To be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a female entity, a gal, one of us, just chilling in the sun and listening to us yap. This may seem extremely dumb, but it worked (to some degree). Alternatively, making a conscious choice to become less scared worked.

Whatever the case, I’ve tried to keep it up. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. I know huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they eat things like insect pests (creatures I despise). I am cognizant they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They move in the most terrifying and somehow offensive way imaginable. The vision of their many legs carrying them at that terrible speed induces my primordial instincts to go into high alert. They are said to only have the typical arachnid arrangement, but I am convinced that increases exponentially when they move.

However it is no fault of their own that they have frightening appendages, 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 retreat when I see one, attempting to stay calm and collected, and deliberately thinking about their positive qualities, has proven somewhat effective.

Just because they are hairy creatures that dart around with startling speed in a way that haunts my sleep, does not justify they warrant my loathing, or my girly screams. I can admit when my reactions have been misguided and driven by unfounded fear. I’m not sure I’ll ever attain the “trapping one under a cup and relocating it outdoors” level, but one can't be sure. There’s a few years for this old dog yet.