By Rachel Weinhaus
I apologize for destroying your web. It was not premeditated, and I bear no ill will towards arachnids.
I was bringing out the compost, and there you were, finishing your handiwork. A magnificent web anchored between two summer lawn chairs that had escaped the first round of fall cleaning.
The web wasn’t blocking my way, and I might not have noticed it had the sun not peeked out from behind the morning clouds and illuminated every intricate detail. Your artistry was stunning. It must have taken you hours, maybe days? I think you sensed my angry vibrations; perhaps you knew my rage before I did, as you crawled to safety down the chair leg.
With one decimating swipe, I unraveled your world.
I scoffed and said out loud, “Good luck rebuilding that.”
Was that really my voice? Audaciously cold and steely.
The sun hid again.
Then shame engulfed me. A different inner voice emerged. It was quieter, full of angst and sorrow: Please rebuild that, Mr. Spider. Please don’t give up. Please find strength.
I was talking not to the spider but to myself.
I had been working on a writing project for months and was devastated by feedback that I wanted to disagree with but couldn’t. As a practiced writer, I know to sit with notes before reacting, before deleting entire chapters or characters, before delivering a final and unforgiving verdict on a project’s worth.
And so now I sit. But I do not absorb the notes. I spin a web. Thoughts spiral, tangle, knot into an ugly pattern. I am not worthy. I am not talented. I have wasted my time. In my web, I trap the unsuspecting, too. I am not a good mother, or wife, or friend . Feelings of loneliness, frustration, paralyzing doubt, and rage consume me. Their radial lines reach and stretch to the ends of my fingertips and toes and spill out my ears until I’m on my way to the compost to find you.
You, Mr. Spider, are everything I am not. Confident, assured, masterful. It is cowardly to make you the enemy when I am only at war with myself.
The day I destroyed your home, I found myself going outside more than usual: the trash needed to be emptied (the bag was half full), I thought I heard the mailman (we rarely get mail), and maybe our dog needed to go out (I had to rouse Josie from a deep sleep). But on each occasion, I found no signs of a silky threadwork resurrection. I looked for you over the next few days too, but it was clear you were gone, and this had not been a safe place for you.
I understand now that this is not safe for me either. I need to anchor myself in self-love and self-acceptance so that when the rains come or the winds blow, I do not break.
While I am remorseful and hope you accept my apology, I am also working on forgiving myself. I know you are out there somewhere, spinning and rebuilding.
Tomorrow, I will try to do the same.
Yours Truly,
Rachel
___
Rachel Weinhaus earned an MFA in screenwriting from the University of Southern California’s School of Cinema-Television, and a BA in English and Creative Writing from the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. Her personal essays have been published in HuffPost, The Today Show, Newsweek , and Insider . Rachel is the author of The Claimant: A Memoir of an Historic Sexual Abuse Lawsuit and a Woman’s Life Made Whole . Visit her here .
All Rights Reserved Book Blog