A Review of "The Invisible Manual" by Anonymous

I read this very short book because I thought it would give me more reflections from another autistic woman and some science behind the reflection. I thought I could get some validation of it.

Authors who write memoirs, take a note. If you write something like this: "Did it really happen? Maybe not like this....And maybe, just maybe, one day the author will find the strength to step into the light and speak their truth." It will not encourage someone like me to read it. Because I wanted the truth. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

To the author's credit, they did say the book wasn't a memoir. But when you're searching for true, lived experiences of other women with autism, it really doesn't help to dangle the story as truth or fiction. Real or not real. Maybe real, or mostly fake.

It's not about validation of oneself or self-acceptance, it's about honesty and certainty. It's about repeatability. Verifiability. The stuff that makes an experiment repeatable and valid.

That said, I still read the book. I spent money on it - I think at this point it was too much money - but I wanted to read what I spent money on. Just to see if there's anything that would be helpful.

Some things did resonate with me. Living in a strange state of limbo, where you were so certain you were on the spectrum and at the same time could not say so because you weren't officially diagnosed. I've spent enough of my academic and social years hearing about people pretending to have a mental disorder, or saying they do after watching a youtube video or TikTok, that I'm jaded.

I understand the need for a label for your strangeness. I completely get it. And I understand if you don't have the money or opportunity to get diagnosed. But that's why I said before my diagnosis: I haven't been officially diagnosed, but I am highly suspicious that I am on the autism spectrum.

Something along those lines, anyway. Technical jargon aside, it's the state of acknowledging you might have a condition without disrespecting those who actually have it, while it could turn out you had something else.

The author had a similar feeling of fear leading up to the diagnosis. But their fear wasn't the same as mine. I was nervous like I was about to take a test. Like I was about to lie to myself, about to make a performance of being autistic when I was actually normal, and at the end wait for two weeks to be told you failed the test when you thought you aced it.

Test anxiety in school does this to you. Even when it's a different kind of test.

And her experience getting tested was similar, because in that office with that doctor, you have to tell your life story. You have to answer their questions, even though it's personal, because to see yourself as they see you you have to peel back at your own layers. Unmask, think, talk, and wonder. Explain your thought processes, your reasoning for why relationships went sour or textures felt wrong or why food that was mushy wasn't good.

That said, the author's words here were on the mark: "Diagnosis isn't magic. It doesn't erase the past. But it reframes it. And sometimes, that's everything."

Following this diagnosis, there is a little grief. For some people it could be a river. For me, it was a trickle. Memory train coming through, and trapped along the tracks are little thoughts of "maybe this was because of my autism?" At first hit, the train can keep on going. But then it hits more thoughts, and more thoughts, and suddenly it's quite slow and could swerve off if you don't clean up those thoughts.

I've said it before that my power of the silver tongue, biblically snakelike in my ability to adapt my personality to a certain setting for a set amount of time, seems to come from this autism. The author describes it more as being a chameleon, blending "into whatever social environment we're in by adapting our speech, interests, or mannerisms".

I can see the metaphor. I like snakes though, so whatever floats her boat. You do you, boo.

The fear the author does talk about, where they are nervous about revealing their autism to their friends and family, I get. I mean, who doesn't worry about being accepted for who you are? And when you're suddenly under a label like 'Autistic', the weight of that word is heavy on your shoulders. It's got a stigma attached to it. A certain set of symptoms, certain implications, certain future expectations. Certain annoyances. Certain problems.

I've already carried the label of OCD and ADHD in my family. They already know my problems. I certainly haven't hidden them, and I do talk about taking my medication. So this new label isn't quite a stone in my stomach when I speak to them and tell them how I feel.

But when it comes to my friends, it definitely weighs differently. I feel less worried for the people that have known me for so long that I've unmasked more of myself around them and they've still accepted me. But what about the relationships I've built where it seems like the wrong words can still bring massive damage? Where I've had to ruminate over everything I said and did to see if they'd still be my friend at the end, still judge me worthy of their attention, respect, and care?

Before anyone talks about this, I know I'm worthy. I've been to therapy enough where the words and their meanings are drilled into my head. I'm worthy of love and respect and acknowledgement and compassion. I'm valuable.

But I still ruminate and I still worry that the person I tried building a friendship with will take one my words as a thrown stone and find pain in them. That they could think of me less.

And that's before the diagnosis.

So now? Now I wonder if they'll see it for the soothing explanation that I find it to be. I wonder if they'll walk away - and they have every right to, it's their choice - or if they'll see this as another part of a bridge extended.

Their choice. And yes, whoever leaves isn't worthy of me or some shite like that. I get it, the friends that stay are the true friends all along. But labels do have a certain magic, a certain influence in the future of something. And boy does this label come with one.

The ending of The Invisible Manual was about what the author did after their diagnosis. Their journey of acknowledgement, research, recalling of memories, and resolve to take better care of themselves in the future.

I'm on that same stage; I'm diving into the books, the studies, the anecdotes and the subreddits while recalling my own past experience and matching memories and problems with symptoms and explanations. There's definitely some grief in knowing that if this diagnosis reached me sooner I could have done things differently or said things the right way, or my family could have treated me differently and said things the right way, but the past can't be changed.

I think I'll still dig up some memories and lost opportunities and options that I'll grieve over, in the future. That's inevitable. But now at least I can advocate for myself in a career, social, or academic space.

I'm also 25. That's not too old to be diagnosed. At this point in life, it's good that I've got this certainty because I can use it. Where before the structure of my life was shaped by school, grades, assignments, and social outings, now the structure of my life is shaped by my actions, my needs, and my job.

So, not the worst thing ever.

I will say, that book was a couple dollars too expensive. Read it if you want, it's your choice. But I will be reading Temple Grandin's book next, and I think it'll be more helpful. Certainly, a bit more true.

I like the truth.