I had a safe, secure childhood. I was happy, carefree and had no idea of the dangers and evils this chaotic world can present. Not anymore. I think I realized something about the world about the age of four or five. Nature itself that decided I needed a lesson - a lesson in fear. Why I had to meet that repulsive thing so long ago on that chill fall afternoon, I’ll never know, but I do know that the fear of that revolting, ugly monster that made my four year old self tremble has stayed with me ever after, and will stay a long time yet.

I went out to the porch one day. It was fall, when the leaves were dry, brown and crunchy as pretzels, but didn't taste nearly as good. It was chilly outside the warm, loving house, which was now separated from me by the sliding glass door, but I didn't look back as I turned on the hose, dressed in my purple t-shirt, blue plaid shorts, and mismatched flip flops. I was hosing off the porch for Mommy, who was sick of looking at the gray cement, littered with leaves, dirt, and threaded with cobwebs. My white blond hair flounced around my delicate face as I skipped over to spray the porch with the long, gray, water snake.

I looked around, my quiet humming the only sound in the pressing silence, and surveyed the porch with my back to the sliding glass door. Dirt was stuck in the crevices of the gray slabs and a crunchy pile of leaves lay against the side of the house. A gust of wind caused the dry, stiff leaves on the porch to scuttle away under the shelter of the grill, where they trembled in their places as if it would protect them from some strange monster that pursued the dead foliage. My smile vanished. The song lyrics I had been repetitively humming faded in my throat.

I shuddered as a second gust of wind, stronger than the first, wound its way up the short sleeves of my shirt, leaving goose bumps on my skin as its frigid fingers traveled up my skinny arms and the back of my neck like a snake. The poison of unease worked its way into my skin and beat through my blood, carried on the wind.

I sprayed off the porch quickly, trying my best to get the dirt and leaves off it so Mommy would be happy, all while attempting to ignore the delicate thumping of my fragile heart. I started on the corner of the house next to the sliding glass door, spraying from the bottom on up. Sticky spider webs tore from the panels, falling prey to the water until the corner of my eye caught a black scuttle from above. I froze in place and glanced up.

They say that every face and image you see is burned into you mind. This monstrosity, this thing, has been branded into my memory for the last eight years. A collection of electronic pulses associate this repulsive, terrifying monster with one emotion only – sheer terror.

I stood there in shock for a moment as I stared at the monster. It was black and hairy. It had too many legs, too many eyes. There was too much black, too much fear. The monstrosity was a tarantula, clad in an ugly, repulsive, foul, hair raising, black bristles and terrifying pincers.

We stood in tense silence for a moment. I was sure it could see me, and I could see it. Neither moved. I dropped the hose, water still gurgling feebly out of the mouth. The spider twitched and I bolted into the house, wrenching open the glass door and then slamming it behind me. I ran to Mommy and threw my arms around her middle since I was too short to reach any higher. Only then did the fear hit me.

Millions of images on replay flashed through my mind. Things that could have happened. Things that didn't happen. Things that only existed in my mind, but those “what ifs” haunted my memory. I was terrified, utterly and completely terrified. That was the lesson that Nature decided to teach me that day, the lesson of fear.
Did I see a tarantula? Maybe. There was a spider there, but perhaps time has swollen and distorted my memory. Perhaps it was an escaped pet. Maybe it was a tiny spider that seemed enormous to a four year old. Maybe it really was a tarantula.

But I do know this: The world isn't all unicorns and sunshine as perhaps my four-year-old self had supposed. There are other things out there, things that hunt and inspire fear. With my arachnophobia came another lesson. Yes, there is fear, but you never stop fighting it. Never stop fighting.