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I firmly hold the belief that it is always possible to change. My view is you truly can train a seasoned creature, provided that the experienced individual is willing and eager for knowledge. Provided that the person is prepared to acknowledge when it was wrong, and strive to be a better dog.

OK yes, I am the old dog. And the skill I am attempting to master, although I am set in my ways? It is an major undertaking, an issue I have struggled with, frequently, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward the common huntsman. My regrets to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be grounded about my potential for change as a human. It also has to be the huntsman because it is imposing, commanding, and the one I see with the greatest frequency. This includes on three separate occasions in the last week. Inside my home. I'm not visible to you, but I’m shaking my head and grimacing as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but my project has been at least achieving Normal about them.

An intense phobia regarding spiders since I was a child (as opposed to other children who are fascinated by them). Growing up, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to make sure I never had to handle any directly, but I still panicked if one was clearly in the general area as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and attempting to manage a spider that had made its way onto the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by standing incredibly far away, practically in the adjoining space (for fear that it ran after me), and emptying half a bottle of bug repellent toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it did reach and irritate everyone in my house.

As I got older, whomever I was in a relationship with or sharing a home with was, as a matter of course, the most courageous of spiders between us, and therefore tasked with dealing with it, while I made low keening sounds and ran away. If I was on my own, my method was simply to leave the room, plunge the room into darkness and try to forget about its being before I had to enter again.

In a recent episode, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a notably big huntsman who made its home in the sill, for the most part stationary. As a means to be less scared of it, I conceptualized the spider as a 'girlie', a gal, in our circle, just relaxing in the sun and overhearing us gab. This may seem extremely dumb, but it had an impact (a little bit). Or, making a conscious choice to become less phobic worked.

Regardless, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the sensible justifications 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 scuttle like that. They propel themselves in the deeply alarming and somehow offensive way imaginable. The sight of their many legs transporting them at that alarming velocity induces my caveman brain to go into high alert. They claim to only have the typical arachnid arrangement, but I maintain that triples when they get going.

But it isn’t their fault that they have unnerving limbs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – if not more. I have discovered that implementing the strategy of working to prevent immediately exit my own skin and retreat when I see one, trying to remain composed and breathing steadily, and consciously focusing about their good points, has begun to yield results.

The mere fact that they are hairy creatures that move hastily with startling speed in a way that invades my dreams, is no reason for they deserve my hatred, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I am willing to confess when I’ve been wrong and fueled by baseless terror. I doubt I’ll ever reach the “trapping one under a cup and escorting it to the garden” stage, but one can't be sure. Some life is left left in this veteran of life yet.