Autobiographical passages in fiction

My work-in-progress, Storywalker, is a YA epic fantasy novel about a teenaged girl called Molly who, despite suffering from the chronic illness myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME), is able to enter books and engage with characters, first as an observer then later as a heroine.

I too have ME. I've had it for 23 years, actually, but although I've been writing for most of that time it's only now that I feel qualified to write a main character who has ME and manage not to make the story all about the fact that she has ME.

So Storywalker will be autobiographical, in that I'm a writer with ME writing a character who has ME, and this is the first time I've done it. The first time I've done it openly, anyway.

I did it once before, but not openly. In my first ever published book, Beauty and the Bastard, my hero Saul is a fallen angel whose sentence on Earth includes him being imprisoned in stone whenever the sun is up. Every evening, when he falls free from the stone, he suffers terrible muscle cramps until his circulation gets going again. Here he is:

The pain started when the sun went down. Saul had trained himself to deny its inevitability, day by day, so he could enjoy those few moments when the sun's sinking glory almost touched him, when warm light filled his eyes and he almost remembered how that felt. But always, as soon as the final golden glint winked out, the pain consumed him. He felt that. He definitely felt that. 

Sometimes, tired and jaded and unwilling to face the daily workout, he tried to stay in the stone. He couldn't. The pain only increased until it hit screaming pitch and forced him to push free and fall to the ground, gasping and writhing in agony. 

Muscle cramps were the most immediate and severe pain, especially in the big muscles of his arms and legs, but they were also the ones he could deal with most easily through a combination of stretches and a good lick of salt on his tongue from the little bag in his coat pocket. 

Less acute, but longer to throw off, were the dull hammering headache and the pins and needles. And the headache always got worse while he drank bottled water and exercised his sluggish circulation back to life. Only when everything else was working properly and he could relax enough to breathe deeply, did the brain pain start to retreat. He'd perfected this routine a lifetime ago, but the ordeal had never gotten any easier.

As far as I'm aware, only a few people who are close to me recognised that as my own wake-up condition. ;)

So, over to you. Have you ever written an autobiographical passage in your fiction? Have you ever recognised one in a book you've read?

David Bridger blogs here, tumblrs here, and tweets here.