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Jan. 14th, 2020 09:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roselightfairyYesterday evening I encountered the first spider in my apartment.
It was an absurdly long time in coming, of course. I've lived here for eight months now (how on EARTH has it been that long already) and I've known it was coming since I first made the commitment to living alone: eventually I was going to have to deal with my own spiders.
(Possibly this introduction has given you the clue that I'm irrationally terrified of them. If you surmised this, you are correct.)
The thing is, I don't actually have anything against spiders. I'm glad they exist. I think they do great things for the world, and I think they're objectively pretty cool. If I see one in the wild, I'll happily give it a wide berth and appreciate that it's there.
It's just. . . I can't handle with the possibility that they might come into contact with my actual human skin. And if they're inside, that possibility is always there . . . especially when they disappear.
When I lived with other people, I would usually just go ask someone else to deal with the spider for me. If they didn't want to kill it, I would even happily encourage them to trap it and put it outside. But if I'm the only one there . . . there's no other option. The spider is going to die, because I'm too afraid to get close to it to keep it alive. Which I know is a terrible instinct and explains a lot of the baser impulses of human nature, and I feel terrible about it, but . . . there it is. I must be a spider killer, because I'm too afraid of them to save them.
I've taken to conducting a routine spider-check before stepping into any shower, because I know that's where they lurk, and the habit has saved me enough times that I have a vested interest in continuing it. There's nothing like encountering a spider when soapy and wet and trapped in an enclosed space with no escape and nothing to protect your bare flesh from the tickle of its scuttling legs.
So all this is to say that it wasn't in the shower. I showered without incident, stepped out, wrapped myself in my towel, and frowned at the black spot on the bathroom door. I was sure it hadn't been there before.
My first thought, as it always is, was, Spider??? I tried to calm myself down, reminded myself of the dark spot on another wall that definitely isn't a spider but still periodically tricks me . . . but this one hadn't been there before, I was sure of it.
It moved.
I knew - oh, I knew, with all my logical faculties - that it was harmless. That it was a tiny black creature that would easily be squished if I could just bring a wad of toilet paper close enough to it. That I could trap it easily as well, if I could dare to take my eyes off it for long enough to get a cup.
I couldn't. It kept moving.
I keep a flyswatter in my bedroom, and I suppose it had always been waiting there in anticipation of this moment . . . but now that the moment was here, I was frozen. Dripping wet, naked, clutching my towel around my shoulders, I backed up towards my bed, my eyes never leaving the spider making its way up my bathroom door.
My door . . . that was where my towel had been hanging, I realized. I let it fall, trembling, adrenaline flooding my body, my legs shaking. What if there were more? What if they were hiding in the towel?
It stopped moving for a moment, and I inched my way on wobbly legs closer to the flyswatter and closed my hand around it. I knew if I hit the spider hard enough, I would kill it, but . . . but what if I didn't? What if I just knocked it off the door instead? What if it landed on the floor and came for me?
One of my coworkers teased me, several months ago when I confessed my fear of encountering a spider on my own, "I can't wait until you go downstairs and get [other coworker, who is my neighbor] to kill your spiders for you." I laughed, but in that moment last night, standing there wet, naked, and defenseless against my absolutely defenseless enemy, I considered it.
It was thinking of my brother that stopped me. My brother, who may be even more afraid than I am, who was recently in Peru and witnessed some of the most horrifying creatures I could even imagine. In person. Up close. If he can do that, I thought, I can vanquish this tiny spider with a flyswatter.
I took a deep breath, firmed my hand around the handle, and swung.
Smack! The noise was louder than I had expected, and I squeaked and jumped back.
The spider moved, scuttling upwards, and I actually moaned aloud. I had missed, and now it knew something was up.
"Please, please, please," I chanted, shaking everywhere, taking freezing, panting breaths to try to calm myself down. I swung again.
And missed again.
I don't know what my neighbors thought - I must have shaken the floor when I jumped back; surely they heard the smacks, if not my whimpers. But there was nothing for it. I had gone this far; I had to finish the job.
I don't remember if it took one or two smacks after that; time blurred a little. But I do know that, with a backhand swipe that brought me closer to the door than I wanted to be, I eventually connected. The black dot went still.
But was it dead? I couldn't see well enough to know, and I couldn't get closer. Despite the fact that I knew I would eventually have to get the body off the door, for a moment I truly considered leaving it there. Just . . . going to bed and never dealing with it again. But again, I knew I couldn't leave it unfinished like that. And I couldn't leave a spider body on my door forever.
It continued to not move, even when I gently pushed the door and it swung out. It was dead. It must be.
I crept past the door and found myself a huge wad of toilet paper to encase my hand. With one last strangled groan, I reached forward with the toilet paper and pressed my hand against the door with such force that if it hadn't already been dead, it certainly was now.
And then I flicked the toilet paper into the toilet, flushed it, and retreated to my bed, trembling with adrenaline and anxiety.
What if there were more? What if its brethren would all come after me, now that I had killed one of their own? What if they all knew about the breaching of my safe space now, and would all come for me in the night? What if they were hiding behind my bed right now?
But in the end, I had to just accept it. I couldn't tear apart my room; I was still naked and wet and I needed to hang up my towel and go to bed, and I just . . . didn't have the energy for that paranoia.
Instead, I got into my pajamas as quickly as I could and burrowed under the covers, hoping I wouldn't have to leave them again until the morning.
And then, of course, I pulled out my phone to text my college roommate all about it.
It was an absurdly long time in coming, of course. I've lived here for eight months now (how on EARTH has it been that long already) and I've known it was coming since I first made the commitment to living alone: eventually I was going to have to deal with my own spiders.
(Possibly this introduction has given you the clue that I'm irrationally terrified of them. If you surmised this, you are correct.)
The thing is, I don't actually have anything against spiders. I'm glad they exist. I think they do great things for the world, and I think they're objectively pretty cool. If I see one in the wild, I'll happily give it a wide berth and appreciate that it's there.
It's just. . . I can't handle with the possibility that they might come into contact with my actual human skin. And if they're inside, that possibility is always there . . . especially when they disappear.
When I lived with other people, I would usually just go ask someone else to deal with the spider for me. If they didn't want to kill it, I would even happily encourage them to trap it and put it outside. But if I'm the only one there . . . there's no other option. The spider is going to die, because I'm too afraid to get close to it to keep it alive. Which I know is a terrible instinct and explains a lot of the baser impulses of human nature, and I feel terrible about it, but . . . there it is. I must be a spider killer, because I'm too afraid of them to save them.
I've taken to conducting a routine spider-check before stepping into any shower, because I know that's where they lurk, and the habit has saved me enough times that I have a vested interest in continuing it. There's nothing like encountering a spider when soapy and wet and trapped in an enclosed space with no escape and nothing to protect your bare flesh from the tickle of its scuttling legs.
So all this is to say that it wasn't in the shower. I showered without incident, stepped out, wrapped myself in my towel, and frowned at the black spot on the bathroom door. I was sure it hadn't been there before.
My first thought, as it always is, was, Spider??? I tried to calm myself down, reminded myself of the dark spot on another wall that definitely isn't a spider but still periodically tricks me . . . but this one hadn't been there before, I was sure of it.
It moved.
I knew - oh, I knew, with all my logical faculties - that it was harmless. That it was a tiny black creature that would easily be squished if I could just bring a wad of toilet paper close enough to it. That I could trap it easily as well, if I could dare to take my eyes off it for long enough to get a cup.
I couldn't. It kept moving.
I keep a flyswatter in my bedroom, and I suppose it had always been waiting there in anticipation of this moment . . . but now that the moment was here, I was frozen. Dripping wet, naked, clutching my towel around my shoulders, I backed up towards my bed, my eyes never leaving the spider making its way up my bathroom door.
My door . . . that was where my towel had been hanging, I realized. I let it fall, trembling, adrenaline flooding my body, my legs shaking. What if there were more? What if they were hiding in the towel?
It stopped moving for a moment, and I inched my way on wobbly legs closer to the flyswatter and closed my hand around it. I knew if I hit the spider hard enough, I would kill it, but . . . but what if I didn't? What if I just knocked it off the door instead? What if it landed on the floor and came for me?
One of my coworkers teased me, several months ago when I confessed my fear of encountering a spider on my own, "I can't wait until you go downstairs and get [other coworker, who is my neighbor] to kill your spiders for you." I laughed, but in that moment last night, standing there wet, naked, and defenseless against my absolutely defenseless enemy, I considered it.
It was thinking of my brother that stopped me. My brother, who may be even more afraid than I am, who was recently in Peru and witnessed some of the most horrifying creatures I could even imagine. In person. Up close. If he can do that, I thought, I can vanquish this tiny spider with a flyswatter.
I took a deep breath, firmed my hand around the handle, and swung.
Smack! The noise was louder than I had expected, and I squeaked and jumped back.
The spider moved, scuttling upwards, and I actually moaned aloud. I had missed, and now it knew something was up.
"Please, please, please," I chanted, shaking everywhere, taking freezing, panting breaths to try to calm myself down. I swung again.
And missed again.
I don't know what my neighbors thought - I must have shaken the floor when I jumped back; surely they heard the smacks, if not my whimpers. But there was nothing for it. I had gone this far; I had to finish the job.
I don't remember if it took one or two smacks after that; time blurred a little. But I do know that, with a backhand swipe that brought me closer to the door than I wanted to be, I eventually connected. The black dot went still.
But was it dead? I couldn't see well enough to know, and I couldn't get closer. Despite the fact that I knew I would eventually have to get the body off the door, for a moment I truly considered leaving it there. Just . . . going to bed and never dealing with it again. But again, I knew I couldn't leave it unfinished like that. And I couldn't leave a spider body on my door forever.
It continued to not move, even when I gently pushed the door and it swung out. It was dead. It must be.
I crept past the door and found myself a huge wad of toilet paper to encase my hand. With one last strangled groan, I reached forward with the toilet paper and pressed my hand against the door with such force that if it hadn't already been dead, it certainly was now.
And then I flicked the toilet paper into the toilet, flushed it, and retreated to my bed, trembling with adrenaline and anxiety.
What if there were more? What if its brethren would all come after me, now that I had killed one of their own? What if they all knew about the breaching of my safe space now, and would all come for me in the night? What if they were hiding behind my bed right now?
But in the end, I had to just accept it. I couldn't tear apart my room; I was still naked and wet and I needed to hang up my towel and go to bed, and I just . . . didn't have the energy for that paranoia.
Instead, I got into my pajamas as quickly as I could and burrowed under the covers, hoping I wouldn't have to leave them again until the morning.
And then, of course, I pulled out my phone to text my college roommate all about it.
