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To say I have often been misunderstood would be a gross understatement. It’s been my defining characteristic.

The number of times I have walked into conflicts of my own making, with the opposite intention, is quite astounding.

There was the time at work, about twenty years ago, I sent what I thought was a supportive email to my manager, encouraging a new approach to getting our long-delayed learning management software installed by IT.

But far from being accepted as helpful advice, my manager took it as a personal attack on her. Thus did she launch into an absolute tirade directed at me in our team meeting, dressing me down in front of all of my colleagues.

I must admit that although I was perplexed by her response, I wasn’t particularly surprised. During a Master’s degree in Scotland five years earlier, I had a similar encounter with a fellow student who would likewise explode in rage after nearly every interaction with me.

During the same period, an overseas student on my course took my awkward avoidance of eye contact to mean I was an awful racist who refused to interact with her because I had a problem with her ethnicity.

That was until an outgoing Muslim friend of mine struck up conversation with her in the library one day. Upon learning of the course she was studying, he asked if she knew me, which naturally turned all of her assumptions on their head.

Thanks to those accidental interventions, from that day forth, her entire perception of me changed. No longer was I a maddening racist, but instead became a rather shy friend, much more worldly than she had imagined.

But, alas, that pattern would still be repeated over the years for decades to come. The parent at the school gates who became convinced I was an arrogant hater of Muslims due to my avoidant gaze, for example. An assumption only undermined when she pointed me out to my wife.

Given the number of times such conflicts have arisen throughout my life, is it any wonder I’ve become a social recluse, avoiding confrontation? Even in my own home, our children will sometimes rage about my gaze.

It’s hard thinking yourself to be a nice person with good intentions, but finding everyone despises you. It’s why I’m not very socially adventurous, often shunning invitations and avoiding public spaces.

To what can I attribute these chaotic interactions? Today, I have a potential explanation: the finding that many people with genetic disorders are at risk of social impairments and dysfunction.

Recent studies have found that people with my chromosome variation may have social cognitive difficulties, such as the ability to perceive, understand, and express social signals. Indeed, I have found nearly every experience of mine mirrored in research literature.

In short, I may conclude, “It’s not you. It’s me.” Or otherwise, I am no longer a reliable witness to past social interactions because I may have misperceived everything. In truth, the more I understand about myself, the more I doubt all things.