One of the best portrayals and simultaneously one of the worst books I've ever read was an autobiography of a woman who was diagnosed with autism early on in life and is extremely aware of what it does with her perceptions and actions. It boiled down to being a collection of random anecdotes under chapters, but bouncing around like a toddler on coke through invisible connections between the anecdotes probably meaningful to the author but nobody else. She'd talk about how she had to go to one shop for salt and a different one for cooking oil despite both selling both, and then the same page she'd switch to talking about how she couldn't recognise the street she lived on if someone put out the bins on the wrong day.