What Snails Taught Me About Accepting My Unique Autistic Brain

If you were to ask me a question, there is a good 80% chance that my answer will be “snails.” You could be asking me what I want for dinner, what I plan to be doing later, what I’m thinking about — any question you could possibly conjure up would be answered with the same, one-word reply.

Snails.

I couldn’t tell you when or why it started; all I know is that one day, snails decided to move into my brain and never leave. My autism, ADHD, and OCD create the perfect environment to sustain a large population of intrusive, snaily thoughts. Sometimes the snails are good house guests. Other times, they make me want to rattle my brain until they come tumbling out.

Other relevant stories:
• Is ADHD a Learning Disability?
• Is ADHD Neurodivergent?
• Arguing With Someone Who Has ADHD
• What is ADHD?

If I ask myself, “what do I need to do next?” there’s almost a guarantee that my brain will respond with “snails.” It will not be able to come up with the next class assignment I need to do or remind me of the emails I need to send, “snail” will simply reverberate throughout my skull. If I forget what I’m doing mid-task, snails will try to pull me even further away. If I forget where I am, my mind is unlikely to tell me because it is consumed by a single, one-word, intrusive thought. Even now, as I write this, in the back of my head “snail” is an ever-constant, quiet echo —  demonstrating how excited it is that I am giving it the attention it so desperately craves. Writing is a chore. Talking is a chore. Focusing is a chore when it feels like you don’t have any control over what you think about and when you think about it.

Maybe it would be better if “snails” were an actual special interest. Don’t get me wrong, I know quite a bit about snails, but my thoughts about them aren’t the interesting kind where my brain rattles off facts about them for hours on end. When snails come knocking, I can’t find the nearest friend or family member and start infodumping on them like I can with fetishes, sex, or reproductive biology; the best I can do is turn to someone, giggle, and say “I like snails” or just repeatedly whisper the word like some weird, gastropod mantra. If I’m going to be stuck with these thoughts, I would at least like them to be interesting.

So, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to kick the snails out? Well, that’s the funny part; I’m not supposed to do anything. As with all intrusive thoughts, if I try to forcibly evict snails from my brain, they will only come back stronger — giant, 70 cm giant whelks rather than 3.81 cm garden snails. Forcing the snails away will only make me frustrated. It will only make me hate my brain and hate how different I am and how I don’t think like everyone else. I will begin to resent snails and my neurodivergence even though both bring so much joy to my life. My neurodivergence makes me a unique contributor to the world’s puzzle — someone deserving of respect. And if snails are a part of that uniqueness, then they need to be respected as well.

So here’s to you, snails. You are small. You are cute. You have a funny way of reproducing. Sometimes, you frustrate me to no end. But you also bring me so much joy. You make my life hard and you make my life wonderful. I’m glad you are a part of my brain’s ecosystem. I’m glad my brain is the way it is — struggles and all.