I was diagnosed at 38. Two years on, I still don't have neat words for it. The relief was real. A lifetime of feeling like the manual everyone else got had been printed in a different language, and finally — oh, that's why. The exhaustion after socializing. The way fluorescent lights make me want to crawl out of my skin. The intense interests that I'd learned to apologize for. The masking I didn't even know I was doing. The grief was also real. Mourning the kid I was who didn't have language fo…