I’m afraid of spiders. I see one and my body moves on its own, faster than I ever can when I’m thinking rationally. Of course, it wasn’t always this way. I didn’t used to know enough to be scared.

I remember the first time I knew. I was in first grade and I had wandered over to the battered bookcase full of picture books. It was in the corner and my classmates’ shrieks weren’t as loud with the stacks of colored paper soaking up the sounds. I saw a book with a dew-covered leaf, shining in dappled sunlight. A safe bet for some light reading, I thought.

(Well, I thought that in six-year-old language. Probably something more like “Oooo pretty”)

Anyways, I opened to a random page expecting another beautiful image but all I saw was a hairy monster and fangs taking up the whole page. I sat, transfixed with horror, until my friend came over to see what I was doing. “Ew!” she squealed. “A spider!”

And so it began