the therapist and cling to it: The way out of fear leads through fear. The way out of fear leads through fear. The way out of fear leads through fear.
The man looks at me enquiringly. With a mute nod, I signal to him that I am ready, although the exact opposite is the case. But I have been looking at the bird-eating spider for ages now. It is sitting in its jar, quite still most of the time, only stirring now and then, making my hair stand on end. Everything about it looks wrong: its peculiar movements, its body, its black and tan leg joints.
The therapist is patient. We’ve come a long way today. At first I couldn’t even be in the same room as that creature.
It was Charlotte who opened the door to the man with the bird-eating spider and cajoled me into greeting him. Charlotte thinks I’m researching for a book; she thinks the goings-on today are research for a novel, just like all the other crazy things that I’ve got up to here in the house these past weeks.
It’s a good thing she thinks that; it means that she doesn’t bat an eyelid when I shut myself away with a retired policeman to study interrogation techniques, or have ex-army trainers explain to me how elite soldiers are made mentally fit enough to withstand torture without disclosing information. These experts, who come to my house day after day, are received by Charlotte discreetly, and she passes no comment on the arrival of the therapist specialising in treating people with phobias using ‘confrontational therapy’. Charlotte has no idea that I’m trying to find out how much fear I am capable of withstanding before I collapse.
I am soft and I know it. The life I’ve led over the past years has been free of discomfort. I’ve been mollycoddled so much that it’s an incredible act of willpower for me to have a single cold shower instead of a warm one. I have to learn to be tough on myself if I want to take on my sister’s murderer.
Hence the bird-eating spider. Can’t get more discomforting than that. As long as I can remember, there’s been nothing I loathe more than spiders.
The therapist takes the lid off the jar where he’d temporarily stowed the spider while I got used to the sight of it.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Wait.’
He pauses. ‘Don’t think about it too much,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t get any easier, no matter how long you wait.’
He looks at me, waiting for a sign. He won’t do a thing until I’ve given him the go-ahead. That’s the deal.
I recall our conversation at the beginning of the session. ‘What are you frightened of, Frau Conrads?’ he’d asked.
‘The spider, of course,’ I replied, annoyed at the question. ‘I’m frightened of the spider.’
‘The bird-eating spider that’s in a container in my bag?’
‘Yes!’
‘Are you frightened right now?’
‘Of course I’m frightened.’
‘What if there was no container in my bag with a bird-eating spider inside?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Let’s assume, for a moment, that there’s no spider because I forgot to pack the container. What would you be frightened of then? You couldn’t be scared of the spider, if there wasn’t an actual spider.’
‘But I thought there was.’
‘Exactly. You thought. That’s where fear begins. In your head. In your thoughts. The spider has absolutely nothing to do with it.’
I pull myself together.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘We’ll do it now.’
Once again, the therapist removes the lid and places the jar on its side. The spider begins to move at a speed that terrifies me. I force myself to keep looking at it, even when the therapist lets it crawl onto his hand. I suppress the urge to jump up and run away, and I feel a drop or two of cold sweat running down my spine. I force myself to remain seated and watch. The spider comes to rest on the man’s hand—a nightmare of legs and fuzz and repulsiveness.
Once again, I try to apply what I have learnt over the past weeks. I focus my attention on my body and
The man looks at me enquiringly. With a mute nod, I signal to him that I am ready, although the exact opposite is the case. But I have been looking at the bird-eating spider for ages now. It is sitting in its jar, quite still most of the time, only stirring now and then, making my hair stand on end. Everything about it looks wrong: its peculiar movements, its body, its black and tan leg joints.
The therapist is patient. We’ve come a long way today. At first I couldn’t even be in the same room as that creature.
It was Charlotte who opened the door to the man with the bird-eating spider and cajoled me into greeting him. Charlotte thinks I’m researching for a book; she thinks the goings-on today are research for a novel, just like all the other crazy things that I’ve got up to here in the house these past weeks.
It’s a good thing she thinks that; it means that she doesn’t bat an eyelid when I shut myself away with a retired policeman to study interrogation techniques, or have ex-army trainers explain to me how elite soldiers are made mentally fit enough to withstand torture without disclosing information. These experts, who come to my house day after day, are received by Charlotte discreetly, and she passes no comment on the arrival of the therapist specialising in treating people with phobias using ‘confrontational therapy’. Charlotte has no idea that I’m trying to find out how much fear I am capable of withstanding before I collapse.
I am soft and I know it. The life I’ve led over the past years has been free of discomfort. I’ve been mollycoddled so much that it’s an incredible act of willpower for me to have a single cold shower instead of a warm one. I have to learn to be tough on myself if I want to take on my sister’s murderer.
Hence the bird-eating spider. Can’t get more discomforting than that. As long as I can remember, there’s been nothing I loathe more than spiders.
The therapist takes the lid off the jar where he’d temporarily stowed the spider while I got used to the sight of it.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Wait.’
He pauses. ‘Don’t think about it too much,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t get any easier, no matter how long you wait.’
He looks at me, waiting for a sign. He won’t do a thing until I’ve given him the go-ahead. That’s the deal.
I recall our conversation at the beginning of the session. ‘What are you frightened of, Frau Conrads?’ he’d asked.
‘The spider, of course,’ I replied, annoyed at the question. ‘I’m frightened of the spider.’
‘The bird-eating spider that’s in a container in my bag?’
‘Yes!’
‘Are you frightened right now?’
‘Of course I’m frightened.’
‘What if there was no container in my bag with a bird-eating spider inside?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Let’s assume, for a moment, that there’s no spider because I forgot to pack the container. What would you be frightened of then? You couldn’t be scared of the spider, if there wasn’t an actual spider.’
‘But I thought there was.’
‘Exactly. You thought. That’s where fear begins. In your head. In your thoughts. The spider has absolutely nothing to do with it.’
I pull myself together.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘We’ll do it now.’
Once again, the therapist removes the lid and places the jar on its side. The spider begins to move at a speed that terrifies me. I force myself to keep looking at it, even when the therapist lets it crawl onto his hand. I suppress the urge to jump up and run away, and I feel a drop or two of cold sweat running down my spine. I force myself to remain seated and watch. The spider comes to rest on the man’s hand—a nightmare of legs and fuzz and repulsiveness.
Once again, I try to apply what I have learnt over the past weeks. I focus my attention on my body and
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