Random Ramblings of Fear

I've had a phobia of spiders for as long as I could remember. I never liked them; they always just freaked me out. I think it's the way they creepily walk around. Their legs just stick out like scary little claws or fingers that are ready to strangle you. It's hard to describe, but if you've ever had an irrational fear of something for it's strange looks then you would know as well.

I also have a mild fear of constraint. This has put me in an interesting position as I've had some time to do a little introspective thinking of my life. I've always been a free spirit in a way; running for recreation or swimming in my pool. While I never liked to be bored in the house when nothing was happening, I also had some silly peeves that reminded me of confinement: shoes and handcuffs. Strange duet, right? I'm one of those girls that you could grow up with and almost never see shoes on their feet. I'm talking about those tight, confining sneakers or Vans or whatever people like to wear; they just weren't for me. Though I lived in a suburb, I almost acted like an old country girl, walking barefoot around the neighborhood or just taking off my sandals randomly in public. I didn't care that people looked, it was simply more comfortable. That said, I LOVED the idea of the sandal, and probably ninety-nine percent of my shoe collection were comprised of footwear made with open toes in mind.

As for the cuffs? It's a bit random, but their main purpose is to restrain someone. Ergo, I must be against it!...at least that's what I thought. In high school, from freshman year to junior year I had this boyfriend by the name of Roy. He was a great guy, and while it didn't work out in the end, we had a lot of fun together. Those were some of the best years of my life. One night, at his house, he decided to handcuff me for fun. I reluctantly allowed him to, and once the locks did their job, I was overwhelmed by a sense of urgency to break free. Then I liked it. It was that fear that allowed me to discover that I like a little bit of restraint when playing around. Maybe it was because I knew I was safe with him there and he wouldn't leave me. Maybe it's because I was barefoot at the time and had I been wearing shoes I would have COMPLETELY freaked out. In retrospect, it's odd that my feet have played such a big role in my life…as long as I can feel the floor, I still feel safe.

Sorry, that was a bit of a tangent, but it relates to the next subject. My earliest memory of spiders is when I was a little girl in bed. I felt a little feather moving across my forehead, then down my face. I woke up to see this rather large arachnid making it's way towards the safety of my sheets. I screamed. I flipped out and had to sleep with my parents for a week after that. Since then, if an eight-legged creature exposed its presence to me, I had to move away. I didn't care. I couldn't deal with them. I have other memories, but just thinking about them would give me the creeps.

Of course, life goes on. People move on. The days move on. Then it happened. Ten 'o'clock AM rolled around and I wandered into the cave. I touched the strange orb and turned to stone. I sat against the wall motionless, my body completely unable to breath or reflex. I couldn't move. Simply staring straight ahead, my flip flops in the corner of my vision, my mind was slowly going mad. I cried, even though I didn't. I screamed, even though I couldn't. I commanded my limbs to move, and they wouldn't. Weeks went by, and they turned to months. I counted the days to keep myself sane. That's how I know that on the hundredth day of being a statue, the entrance to the cave was sealed shut, trapping me in perfect darkness.

I found myself thinking about my fear of constraint. With handcuffs, you could escape. Someone could let you out of those. Heck I had even gone a bit farther and experimented with ankle cuffs and heavy shackles (let's not go into that…that's when things with Roy started to go downhill a bit). While I hated the restraint they gave me, there was a hint of enjoyment in those that being stoned lacked. Here, I had found the ultimate restraint one could be damned to: being turned to stone. I was restrained in my own body, trapped in this inanimate object that weighed me down.

Again, maybe I wasn't completely insane since I was barefoot. Sure, I couldn't move my toes, but at least they weren't trapped in shoes. Hell, with one sole planted on the ground and the other exposed to the air, I have all the freedom I'd need to get through this. If this was going to be it, then at least I had that. Fuck those flip-flops, I didn't need them. I'm barefoot! Ashley doesn't need shoes to survive!

I almost didn't.

On the fifth anniversary of my imprisonment (I'm talking years now), something miraculous happened. I saw that my jeans had begun to restore their color. They were turning back!

Oh my god! I'm saved! It's over! I can move again!

But I didn't. Just my jeans. Then my top. Then my jacket. Not my skin. Just my clothes. I cried that I couldn't move. I cried that I was being teased by this abomination that I had gotten myself into. My clothes were restored by I wasn't. I as furious and tried to throw something.

I wobbled.

What?

I wobbled. My anger had translated into movement. I noticed my limbs were loosening up; barely but still loose. I tried again. My fingers moved a millimeter. My toes moved slightly. I tried harder. My face began to tense up, but movement was happening. Very slightly, but it was definitely happening. I was almost free. Almost!

Then, as if God Himself was toying with me, I heard a snap. I ceased to move. I noticed the cracks on my feet had healed. I was completely solid again. I did not wobble. I had returned to a solid statue again, unable to move. I was still trapped.

My soul cried.

Years later, I felt a feather moving around my toes. With my right foot planted on the ground, this feather was making its way up my foot and above my ankle. My knee bent in the air, I felt it going up my leg, down my stone thigh, and up my rocky waist. I felt the movement of my shirt against my body, and I began to mentally quiver for I knew what was creeping up my "skin" to greet me. A black widow made its way up my face, across my eye sight and weaved it way around my cheeks into the tangled mess that was my stone hair. My face still locked in the fear from when I was petrified, it now doubled as an expression for this spider nesting in my air.  

I gave up. I couldn't take this anymore. A spider had made its home on my head and I was powerless to resist. I didn't care if I broke. I wanted to die. I wanted to self-destruct and end my misery. I didn't care that I was barefoot. I would rather spend the rest of my life in permanent shackles than spend another instant with this…this beast.

A week passed by and the spider was still there. I could feel it move around from time to time and I knew that it had made its web there. As I accepted that I had been turned to stone, I accepted that this creature was not going anywhere. She wasn't going to leave. She somehow had found comfort in my hair. In my presence.

She likes to be near me.

I thought about that. Of all the places in this cave to nest, this spider chose me…as if it wanted to be near me. As if it wanted to comfort me. It had been rather lonely in this cave for the past few years. This spider was the closest thing I had come to another living being. It was the closest thing I had to a companion. This spider was the closest thing I've had to a friend.

Widow, aren't you hungry?

I hadn't even seen a fly or moth in my time in this place. I was suddenly worried that this spider would go hungry. I could feel its web shaking as it moved around, frustrated that it was catching nothing to eat. Widow persevered though, and it kept its web fresh as often as it could, hoping for a hearty catch. I never saw the little thing, but I could feel it. I knew it was there. It's presence went from striking me with fear to soothing me with reassurance that it all would be okay. It gave me strength: if this little spider could be so sure that it would eat someday, then I'm still sure that I will be liberated one day. Maybe this little thing was here to make me feel unafraid. Maybe it's constant presence numbed me to the fear I once had. Maybe it's because I wasn't wearing shoes. Possibly, but I like to think beyond that in this case. I like to think that Widow had been sent to comfort me and remind me that with a little patience, anything is possible. I too would eat another meal one day.

It never did get its meal.

Widow stopped moving and fell out of the nest. It's moth never came for it. The little creatures simply starved. It rolled off of my jacket and onto the ground, finished. The web still sat between my motionless hair and my stone cold cheek. If I could cry for the spider, I would have. I hoped that it would have gotten its wish. I wish I could have done something. Still, maybe she got the bargain between the both of us: she's moved on in life, and I'm still stuck here waiting for my moth to come.  

I'm no longer afraid of spiders as I once was. It's been thirty-seven years since Widow died. Let's see, that put me at around, woah, fifty years? I've been in here for a while. Well, I'm still a statue. I'm still made of rock. I still can't move. I'm still barefoot.

I'm still barefoot.

That's all that matters.

I'm still barefoot.

You know, if a spider can make its home in here and survive for as long as it did, that means it had to get in somehow. Maybe there's hope for someone to discover me after all. Maybe someday there will be a cure for this. You know, I wouldn't mind waiting.

I have time.