I beat my lifelong fear of SPIDERS in just one day... and so can you
They’re back and bigger than ever. But arachnophobes needn’t panic— there’s a way to make eight-legged friends
The piercing scream I let out late one night was so bloodcurdling that a concerned neighbour rushed over to check that I wasn’t being attacked in my own living room. But it wasn’t some crazed axeman that had terrified me, rather a fast-moving house spider that had run across the floor and disappeared beneath the sofa I was curled up on.
I screeched and fled from the room, slamming the door behind me. The TV was on, but I couldn’t pluck up the courage to go back in to turn it off. So it was that I had a restless night’s sleep, with the telly blaring downstairs, knowing that an eight-legged monster was lying in wait for me the next day.
It will be an-all-too familiar feeling for those who suffer from arachnophobia — an intense fear of spiders. It’s said to affect around 18 per cent of the population, and especially right now, slap bang in the middle of ‘spider season’, when the creepy-crawly horrors come into our houses during their mating season.
Whenever I see one my heart starts to race, my palms sweat and I burst into floods of hysterical tears. I know it’s irrational; I know they can’t hurt me — but I just can’t seem to get past it. I avoid going into my garden at this time of year, and I turn down invitations to other people’s homes if they live in old, spidery-filled properties.
When I read that our summer heatwave has led to a boom in large spiders, such as false widows,
I knew I needed to get a handle on my phobia. Animal phobia therapist Britain Stelly, of Creature Courage, runs the Spider Courage experience, a day-long course from her Surrey home.
When we chat on the phone, she tells me she has a 99 per cent success rate and is sure that by the time I leave I’ll be so used to handling spiders that I’ll be bored of them. I suspect there’s more chance of me winning euro Millions and marrying Brad Pitt, but I pay my £347 and book.
I arrive at Stelly’s house and, reading my mind, she instantly assures me: ‘The spiders are all in their boxes, with the lids on and in another room.’ Phew. She tells me that I have what is classed as a ‘simple phobia’ — an unreasonable
fear of one thing that is no real danger to me. We are born with only two fears: loud noises and falling, everything else is learned behaviour. Meaning that it can be unlearned.
Stelly says spider fears usually start in childhood, probably thanks to parents or siblings who had the same phobia. By the end of our eight hours, I will have a calm and reasonable response to spiders, she tells me.
I’m asked to demonstrate how I act, physically, when I see a spider. My shoulders go up, and my hands reach around my body in a tight hug. Stelly tells me that today I’m going to sit and stand straight, head held high.
Research shows that if we take up strong, body-confident poses when we feel intimidated, our emotions soon start to mimic our posture. It’s why so many politicians do that ridiculous, legs apart power pose.
The first step is to learn about ‘anchoring’ techniques. Currently, when I see a spider, I experience fear and panic; Stelly wants me to to tap into more positive emotions and suggests that ‘courage and fascination’ is the way to go.
I am asked to pick a clear memory of a time I felt I had been brave. I recall when I learned to kayak (despite not being able to swim) and rowed solo around the island paradise of Ilha Grande in Brazil. Ok, you could also say that I was unbelievably foolish, but, for now, I’m having it as my moment of supreme bravery.
I take a long time to recall the scene, the sights, smells and surroundings, and then I assign a hand motion of my choice — I go for a fist pump — to the memory.
For my ‘fascination’ moment, I recall visiting the Painted Desert in arizona, the jaw-dropping awe, staring at the red rock around me and feeling like I was in a cowboy movie. I place my thumb and forefinger together as my associated hand movement.
I’m told that I must lose myself in these feelings every day, so that they become second nature in moments of anxiety. Performing the hand motion will instantly
trigger the positive memories. For the next half hour we talk spiders and look at slides.
I learn there are 40,000 species in the world and 600 in the Uk alone, although we mostly see only ten of them. If it wasn’t for spiders, we’d be overrun with bugs and we’d all be living in famine.
The thing is, although I can appreciate their vital role in the eco- system, I still hate them. I don’t like their unpredictable movement, their twitchy legs and the idea they might get onto my skin or tangle up in my hair.
Building compassion for the objects of my fear is Stelly’s next aim. an incredibly tall order. House spiders are the most harmless of all. They are soft and passive and hardly ever bite; they go through their short lives feeling mostly terrified since they get eaten by other creatures and can die of the slightest injuries. They have poor vision and are deaf.
Most spiders that come into our homes are lost and don’t want to be there. The ones we find in our baths have not crawled up drainpipes, as many believe, but, in their desperate search for water, crawl in and become trapped.
It’s here that I am forced to admit the terrible spider genocide I’ve been committing over the past few decades. If I see one in my sink or bath, I turn the tap on until it disappears. My method for spiders elsewhere in the house is to get out the vacuum cleaner and suck them up. Even I’m appalled when I say it out loud.
Stelly guides me through an imagination exercise where I become what I fear. It’s a story of how I go to visit a family I know but, just as I ring the bell, I shrink down to the size of a spider. The family can’t see me, think no one is there but I manage to crawl inside before they shut the door.
What follows is a terrifying battle to stay alive as pets try to eat me, children try to stamp on me, and the house is full of thundering vibrations that rip through my body. I’m alone, shaking and desperate for someone to help me. Conducted in an almost hypnotic trance I find it a surprisingly powerful and emotional experience.
We end our practical therapy with something Stelly calls the ‘silly spider task’. I close my eyes and picture a house spider which I must name and then dress up any way I like. I name her Pixie, put huge false eyelashes on her and then dress her in a regency style bonnet, dress, stockings and boots like Elizabeth Bennet would wear in Pride and Prejudice.
Then to my chosen music (I went with the theme from The Benny Hill Show), Pixie dances around for me. The exercise ends with me painting a picture of her.
Clearly, the plan is that I imagine every spider I see from now on is Pixie. Cute, funny ... and harmless.
after four hours of talking therapy, it’s time for the live spiders. I had expected to be bolting for the door at this point but, instead, although my palms are a little sweaty, I feel calm and even — dare I say it — curious.
Stelly brings in a large house spider in a lidded Tupperware-style box. at first, all I have to do is hold the box. Easy. The lid comes off and I’m asked to watch as ‘Pixie’ scuttles around, still in the box. Next, Stelly gently touches it and asks if I’d like to do the same. Without even thinking, I nudge Pixie with my fingertips.
‘How does it feel?’ asks Stelly. I say that she feels lovely: soft and delicate. Suddenly I’m tearfully overcome with regret at all the spiders I’ve dispatched.
Next, Stelly picks the spider up and lets it crawl over her hands. Without prompting, I put my own hand out and let Pixie do the same with me.
‘Describe how you’re feeling,’ Stelly says. I tell her I feel happy, in control and fascinated.
‘look, she’s grooming herself on your hand — she feels really relaxed with you, isn’t she cute?’ soothes Stelly encouragingly. I have to admit, I am finding her rather adorable.
Next, it’s time to bring out the big guns. Peaches the tarantula is lifted out of her cage. She’s huge, hairy and fills my palm. Holding her is like cuddling a hamster. She feels warm and sits content while I tickle and stroke her.
Ninja, a larger black tarantula, is even lovelier to hold. We turn him upside down and look at his body markings, his fur, his fangs. I feel completely chilled out and happy, as though I’m stroking a kitten.
I wonder if all Stelly’s clients are able to do this by the end of their session?
‘Pretty much everyone will confidently handle a spider by the end of the day,’ she tells me. It’s rare that somebody needs to come back for a second session. Some need a great deal of coaxing and encouragement at the interactive stage, and then there’ are those, like you, who dive straight in.’
I suspect my ease with tarantulas has much to do with the fact I’m unlikely ever to find one under my sofa or in my shower. and playing with house spiders with a therapist present is one thing; what about when I’m alone at home? Will my courage desert me?
Stelly has that covered. We go into her bathroom with a giant house spider that she lets loose and shows me how to catch with a plastic container and sheet of card. We catch and let it go several times, until I’m a dab hand.
‘are you Ok to be left alone in the bathroom with the spider?’ she asks. I am.
She tells me to keep capturing and releasing it until I’m bored. On the floor, in the sink, on the toilet cistern, on a towel. I do this over and over for 20 minutes until I feel like I could win Olympic gold for spider catching.
Before I go home, Stelly asks me to sit facing the wall. She tells me she is going to release a spider into the room behind me but she wants me to keep staring ahead until she says I can turn around.
I briefly panic that it might be crawling up my dress but, using my anchoring hand gestures, I quickly calm down. after three minutes I turn around to see the spider six feet away from me.
I’m amazed at my transformation. I can’t believe I’ve gone from recoiling at spiders to wanting to play with them in the space of a day. I’m sent home with my certificate and some homework, which includes instructions to look for spiders and bring them into my home to capture and release so I don’t lose my skills.
Normally, when I arrive home at this time of year, I flick the light on and pray that a spider doesn’t scuttle out. This time, I pray that I will see one — but no such luck.
a week later, it’s no exaggeration to say that I feel liberated. I can’t bring back Pixie’s relatives, but I promise from now on to leave the Hoover in its cupboard.
I stroke and tickle the black tarantula as if it were a kitten