Exposure Therapy
For your fear of spiders? Behold, I have sourced this perspex box
and this adult Goliath Birdeater, a type of tarantula which, interestingly,
and contrary to its name, rarely eats birds at all. So I think you know
what’s coming. I will admit have no qualifications in psychology
or indeed anything else. Those framed diplomas on the wall?
Look closer: swimming certificates, bought online. This plush leather sofa?
Found in a skip. That receptionist? My no-good brother-in-law,
to whom I promised a Burger King for this. Regardless, I do believe
very strongly if you shove your hand into the box for, I guess, five minutes,
it will cure your fear of spiders. When I’ve tried this before with others,
they’ve suggested they were expecting more of an incremental approach,
involving discussion/visualisation of spiders, photographs of spiders,
then, in a safe environment, escalating levels of interaction with spiders.
Perhaps this is what you were expecting? In fact I did almost purchase myself
an XXL Goliath Bird-Eater Onesie with eight wet eyes on the chest
and four extra limbs that jounced about like pool noodles. In the end,
I decided, no, because of issues with postage and packing, so what I’d like
you to do now is immediately shove your hand into the spider box.
Believe me, just getting hold of both box and spider was enough of a hassle.
To be honest, that’s the problem with you people nowadays: ungrateful
and too easily rattled and, for hand, box, spider and five-minute period
you can substitute anything. What annoys me the most, is that if I had fears?
If I were afraid of, say, sharks? Let’s just say you wouldn’t catch me
refusing the opportunity to dive into a shark tank. I would be elbowing people
out of the way. I’m from a generation where that sort of thing,
jumping into shark tanks, was normal, and somewhere along the way
we started coddling people. And even if I were afraid of something more
nebulous, more existential like, say, a lifetime of increasing hardship
while my body ages, friendships wither, my labour power deteriorates
as a sociopathic hard-right global hegemony spools its web
of indifferent brutality around larger and larger groups, groups that are
increasingly beginning to resemble the group I myself belong to,
while the planet burns and floods? Well, let’s just say you wouldn’t catch me
refusing the opportunity to do whatever the equivalent of putting my hand
in the spider box for that is. Like, I’d probably jump at the chance
to put on some hi-vis and drill my own 10,000 ft oil well. Or, not that,
I’d at least arrange a steak dinner with the CEO of Chevron, make him admit
he’s far more afraid of me than I am of him, make him promise
if I defend him physically from those who believe vandalism
of fossil fuel infrastructure and the guillotining of billionaires
is now the only ethical option remaining to save humanity,
then he’ll secure me a place on the secret starship or vault-city
they’re all obviously developing for when things finally collapse.
So as I say, it’s fortunate that I’m not afraid of those things,
and that it’s you on the hook here. It’s you with your fear of spiders,
me with my fear of nothing, and, here and now, this perspex box
and this spider, and your hand, and three minutes left on the clock.
Michael Conley is a poet from Manchester, UK. His poetry has been Highly Commended in the Forward Prize. His latest pamphlet, These Are Not My Dreams And Anyway Nothing Here Is Purple was published by Nine Pens in 2021. He was the 2022 winner of the Peggy Poole Prize.