Living with Arachnophobia
I think I might be arachnophobia. No, scratch that—I know I am. The moment it became clear to me was the day I dragged my then 4-year-old son across the floor by his foot like a sack of potatoes because a spider appeared on the wall. Not a tarantula. Not a venomous monster from the depths of the Amazon. Just a plain, standard-issue house spider. And I ran. I ran as if it was chasing me, as if it had a personal vendetta against me and my child. I still swear to this day that it would have killed us both if we had stayed.
That eight-legged spawn of Satan was perched on the bathroom ceiling like it owned the place. Its long, scraggly legs looked like crooked twigs stolen from a haunted forest. Its body? Fat, shiny, and full of evil intentions. I don’t care what the textbooks say—that thing had murder in its heart. You might be thinking, “Surely she’s exaggerating.” And I wish I were.
Let me explain: Arachnophobia is the intense and irrational fear of spiders. It’s not just disliking them or feeling a bit creeped out—it’s pure, unfiltered terror. People with this phobia (like myself) react with panic, sweating, crying, heart palpitations, and in some cases, dragging their children like cavemen fleeing fire.
These creatures are everywhere. Ceiling corners. Bathtubs. Under toilet lids (don’t even get me started on that horror). They’re like tiny, hairy squatters who never pay rent but show up when you least expect it. I’m starting to think they know I’m afraid. Like they’ve spread word through some underground spider network: “She’s the one. Go torment her.”
Some of my friends try to be helpful. They say things like, “But spiders are good for the environment,” or “They eat other bugs!” Excuse me, but do I look like I care if they’re pest control professionals? Let them work outside—not in my home, not near my toilet, and certainly not above my bed at 2 a.m. where I can see their creepy, silhouette-dancing legs.
And don’t even try to tell me, “They’re more scared of you than you are of them.” Lies. If they were scared, they wouldn’t skitter out dramatically from behind the couch like they’re making a horror movie entrance. No, these creatures are bold. And I can’t help but think that maybe I’m the only one who really sees them for what they are: spindly-legged nightmares with more eyes than decency.
I've even started to think I'm hallucinating them. Like maybe no one else can see them. My Sister? Calm as a rock. “Oh, it’s just a daddy longlegs,” she says, like that somehow makes it better. Meanwhile, I’m already planning how to set fire to the room and start over.
I pray spiders can’t read, because I know this article would only anger them further. They’d send in a special ops team—eight legs at a time—to seek revenge for exposing them.
Humor aside, I’ve done a little research to try and understand this irrational (yet very real) fear. Apparently, arachnophobia affects about 3.5% to 6% of the population. Some scientists believe it’s evolutionary—our ancestors survived by avoiding dangerous animals, so we’ve inherited their wariness. Others say it’s learned behavior, meaning one traumatic spider encounter could set off a lifelong fear. In my case, it may have been both.
So now, I avoid outhouses and garden sheds like the plague. I inspect every towel and shoe. I am on high alert—my eyes trained for quick movements and shadowy corners.
But enough about me. I want to hear from you. Do you have a fear that makes you act a little... dramatic? Is it snakes, heights, flying, clowns, or—bless your soul—spiders too? Please share your phobia stories in the comments. Misery (and terror) loves company.
And if you ever hear me scream from another room, don’t assume it’s something minor. Assume it has eight legs. Assume I’m fighting for my life.
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