Spiders...

I don't know if I've spoken about my journey with spiders before now. I can't remember and I can't be arsed to go back and read through almost three years worth to find out. So I'm either going to repeat myself or entertain you.

I'd been frightened of spiders for as long as I can remember. It got worse as I got older. I stayed with my parents until I was 30 years old because I was too scared to live alone. Pathetic but true. Eventually I grew a pair and bought my flat. I had a few, erm... lets call them episodes after I moved into my flat. One such episode had me on my neighbours doorstep at 10pm in such a state he thought I'd been mugged. I could barely speak and was seriously hyperventilating. I figured it was some sort of panic attack. Highly unpleasant. He came to help me and pretty much pulled my bedroom apart to find it. Had he not been successful, I would have driven home the 13 miles back to my parents. The final episode that I remember, I called my brother and he helped me breathe. I was on the phone for ten about minutes before I could actually speak. It wasn't the first time it had happened. I guess it just helped to have someone in my ear.

I love living alone. It was a problem for me though. I didn't sleep after such an episode and I remember going to work the next day, barely able to function. There was a time when I couldn't have got within 10 feet of such a scenario as is in the photo above. I was about 10 cms away from this really fucking dopey Daddy Longlegs [excuse me while I go and check if that is meant to be two words or just one - it doesn't really matter, you know what I mean, but I like to know for sure all the same and I like it when I'm right] who made his escape not once, but twice from this monster big spider then stupidly about turned and jumped into its arms. All eight of them. You know one of those hairy fuckers, that you can see actually looking at you with those eight beady eyes... *shudders*

I went to my doctor in the end. She referred me to a psychologist. I went for therapy. CBT therapy to be precise... that's cognitive behavioural therapy... no sniggering at the back. I drew a scale on a piece of paper of what I could just about cope with and upwards. We started with a money spider. I can almost... almost cope with the thought of that, of having one of those on me. I'd still jump. I'd still have that irrational fear that took over and made me physically incapable of behaving like a normal human being. I realise that I'm a million times the size of it. It really can't hurt me. Those of you who think it's funny to simply catch a spider and wave it at someone with a fear... stop it. Don't do that. We don't have control of it. It's irrational and upsetting. Just because you don't understand that sort of fear, take a moment also to understand that you don't get it. It's okay. I understand how ridiculous it is to have such a fear. I've spent time being angry at my inability to control it. For a control freak, this is the worst possible thing. To be so far out of control that you can't get a grip of yourself is unpleasant in the extreme. So don't do that shit. It's not big and it's not clever.

The lovely lady who saw me every week for eight weeks was amazing. I couldn't tell you how she cured me. I wouldn't know where to start. It wasn't a switch she flicked off... well it was but it was gradual and not intrusive. It scared me. Every week to begin with and my fear of going to confront the issue was horrible. Nerves. Worry. Anxiety. Not panic though. So we started at the small end of the scale and I went right through it to the very end. From ordering a book in Waterstones and having to ask them to make sure it was already in the bag before I collected it. Even touching a book was too much. There was no danger that I could have looked at it. I took it back to work and the boys in the mailroom stuck post-it notes on the front of every photo of a spider right the way through it. I still have the book, it still has the post-its but I can look underneath. Knowledge is indeed power. I know all sorts of interesting stuff and I think that's probably where the cure lies.

I took Gavin home with me. Sheila had found him in her garage. I called him Gavin. I have no idea why. She made me take him back to work with me in the jar. I can't even begin to describe that particular bus journey. I was sweating. Gavin was in a jar inside my handbag. I just had to assume that jar still had it's lid on and hadn't somehow opened in my handbag. I had to concentrate on my breathing all the way from the bottom of Leith to the West End. My heart was booming so loud I think the man beside me heard it. I made it back to work, not before making a tit of myself on the bus by taking Gavin out of my handbag and carrying this jam jar with him in it. I think there have been times in my life when I just thought sod it, there are some things I can live with making a tit of myself over. This was one of those moments and it was way more important that I had eye contact with Gavin, than him roaming free in my imagination handbag. So I carried Gavin back to work in my hands in front of me, where I could see him. You get used to the strange looks after a while. I can be a bit special.

Then I went to my local pet shop. It's just up at Lower London Road and they have the ground floor of the building. I still wonder how anyone could possibly buy a flat in a building like that, above a pet shop with great big snakes and huge tarantulas. Fuck that! Anyway... they very kindly allowed me just to hang around in the shop for a while. Generally teetering on the edge of the room with the spiders. I explained my problem, just so they didn't think I had some sort of reptile fetish or something equally twisted. They were utterly brilliant. I'd been in a few times and the girl there, I'm sorry I can't remember her name cause she was really nice to me. She offered to bring one of the spiders to the front of the shop, onto the counter and I could have a bit of space to look at it properly. So I did. I stood there, shaking with tears streaming down my face, rooted to the spot about three feet away from the counter. People stared, some fascinated, some in a weird way... making me think they thought I was weird, and others spoke to me, asked if I was okay. It actually helped to say it out loud. To explain the courage it took for me to get to that point.

On week seven, I called The Butterfly Farm and spoke to a lovely chap called Kevin. I explained the process to him and asked if I could come in just to look first. I said that I didn't know whether I could even get near someone else holding a tarantula, never mind touch it. You see these programs on TV about people confronting their fears. You know these shite Saturday night programs back in the day? Them! There's no danger I could ever have done that. Not a chance. I wouldn't make a habit of it now. My fear has been cured. I generally don't rush round picking them up. I have a really big jar and a piece of perspex. If you do catch them that way, don't throw them out of a window. Take the jar outside and put it down. It doesn't matter if it's two feet from your back door or round the block so shoot me somewhere. Their lungs are like a concertina and they don't survive the fall. You'd have been better stamping on it. Anyway... I'm waffling I know but it's my, albeit slacking journal, so I'm not stopping just yet.

Kevin let me stand at the back as this bunch of kids took turns in holding Rosemary. I felt like a bit of a fud in front of these 10 year olds, casual as you like, passing her round them, one at a time. The kids are lapping it up and I'm stood behind, visible sweat, visible tears whilst shaking like I needed a drink, as though it was the morning after the night before. Nothing like a little bit of a 10 year old girl looking at me like I've lost my mind. It's only a spider after all. I decided at that point that if a 10 year old wearing pigtails and a pink checked shirt and chewing bubble gum could do it, so could I. And I did too. I held Rosemary. I cried the whole time. Not great big sobs but silent tears. I think that in that moment I knew I'd kicked it's ass. If I can hold a tarantula in my actual hand and not shit myself (literally) then a little house spider cannot possibly have that power over me.

I have a photo of that particular moment somewhere, I'll try and find it and back blip it to whenever it was.

Eight weeks. That's how long it took to cure a lifelong phobia. I should have grown a pair way sooner than I did. It's the single thing in my life that I'm the most ridiculously proud of overcoming. It was an overwhelming burden. When you don't take your coat and your shoes off until you've been in every room to check there's nothing there. When you walk into a room, it's a sixth sense, if there's a spider in that room I am homed in on it quicker than I can tell you what a room smells of. Our brains are complex. Never underestimate your potential. If you suffer a phobia, then go and get help. If you know someone with a phobia, talk to them about it. Show them your support. It's scary. I get it. It can be fixed though. Only you can do that though. You can do it. With a little bit of help and a big pair of balls, you can fix it and it's sooooo worth it.

I took this photo. I take photos of every bug I find. It is the most worthwhile thing I've ever done, the cure, not the photos.

Except from maybe learning to drive. I'm loving Barney... did I mention I got a new car? You didn't think I'd get through without a mention did you? Ha! Wrong! He's epic! Every day.

Oh... and I've got the big light on watching the field mouse! And I fed him chocolate. (Promise I'll stop that... soon!)