+ Follow
image by pexels.com

This started back in 2016; a friend of mine was diagnosed with epilepsy. What kind? I’m not sure since it wasn’t something we had heard of. It seemed like a new disease that I found out about later, after much research on it. My friend was simply advised not to tell anyone, because the Indian society does not validate and make space for people with neurological disorders. Every problem is classified simply under the broad term of “mentally unwell,” but it wasn’t mental; it was neurological, and for a layman, those two terms may not seem much different, but in essence, they are two very different concepts. But there came an additional burden with it being a neurological condition: the shame and the efforts to hide it. It wasn’t a topic that was to be discussed, but rather kept a secret from anyone and everyone. There were hushed conversations about what caused it. “Maybe it’s stress,” “Maybe it’s karma,” or even, “Maybe someone cast the evil eye.” No one stopped to ask the simplest, most human question—How are you feeling? And the ignorance only made it worse. The World Health Organization (WHO) reports that nearly 80% of people with epilepsy in India do not receive proper treatment due to social stigma and lack of access to neurological care.

That's the thing about neurological illnesses in India: they're invisible twice. They are invisible because you cannot see them, and nobody wants to see them. Epilepsy, Parkinson's disease, multiple sclerosis, and migraine disorders are all illnesses that exist only in the shadows. Awareness campaigns are scarce, empathy is rare, and even urban Indians struggle to recognize basic emotions.

Neurological illnesses exist in a peculiar region between physical and mental health, and this gray zone frequently leaves sufferers feeling alone. They appear "fine," and society expects them to perform normally. But we don't see the fear that comes with going out alone, the tiredness following an episode, or the concern of being misunderstood once more. They fear the stigma more. People in the workplace are hesitant to expose their working conditions for fear of being perceived as "unreliable." In schools, students with epilepsy or ADHD are still classified as "lazy" or "distracted." Even within families, discussions regarding such problems sometimes end in silence—not because people don't care, but because they don't know how to. This silence has created a culture of concealment. Every faint twitch, every moment of dizziness, was brushed off as “just being tired.” Even the word "epilepsy" was avoided, as if saying it out loud would make it more real, more visible, and more shameful. And that is the heartbreaking part. The condition itself wasn’t what broke them down; it was the loneliness of carrying it in silence. Another layer to this problem is how representation impacts perceptions. Neurological disorders are either dramatized for shock value or absent from films and television. Epilepsy is turned into a cinematic seizure sequence, autism is reduced to clever clichés, and ADHD is dismissed as simple restlessness. This style of shallow narrative is more harmful than beneficial. It undermines empathy and understanding. When people do not see accurate or respectful depictions of neurological illnesses, they are unable to imagine the whole, normal lives that exist behind them. When done well, representation has the power to normalize what ignorance has made invisible. It serves as a reminder to society that neurological diversity is not aberrant but rather a natural element of being human.

The truth is, in India, we are still uncomfortable talking about the human brain. We revere intelligence but fear illness. We celebrate the mind when it’s sharp and logical and shun it when it falters or behaves unpredictably. Our healthcare system mirrors this discomfort—there are fewer than 3,000 neurologists for a population of over a billion. Most live and work in major cities, making diagnosis and treatment for rural patients nearly impossible.

What is sometimes overlooked is that neurological abnormalities do not determine intelligence, skill, or ambition. Many people with epilepsy, for example, live full, creative, and successful lives. Including writers like Dostoevsky, artists like Prince, and Nobel laureates such as Alfred Nobel himself. However, in India, someone with the same disease may still be prevented from working specific vocations, driving, or even marrying.

Living with a neurological illness requires ongoing negotiation with uncertainty: Will I be okay today? Will people understand what happens? Will I lose control in front of a person I care about? These are not simply medical questions; they are genuinely human ones. Anxiety, dread, and self-doubt are constant companions.

Despite all this, there is a change that has started to take form. Social media has provided a forum for people to interact and share experiences that would otherwise be buried in personal journals or in the complex mess of the mind. Various awareness organizations like the Epilepsy Foundation India and the Multiple Sclerosis Society of India are gradually establishing forums to normalize these conversations by giving information and community support. Moreover, we need to include compassion in our systems, including schools, workplaces, and healthcare, which form the foundation of such things. Teachers should be trained to identify neurological disorders rather than describing students as "slow" or "unfocused." Employers must provide a safe workplace in which employees can discuss their situations without fear of losing opportunities. Most essential, families must communicate—to replace silence with understanding, fear with education, and shame with acceptance. We need to learn to accept the difference rather than alienate it.

Because, in the end, the invisible lives of people with neurological problems aren't genuinely invisible; we've simply chosen not to notice them. Their lives are filled with quiet courage. When we eventually choose to look, we notice more than just illness. We see resilience, dignity, and humanity in their most raw form. Perhaps the most important cure is social rather than medical—a cure for ignorance, fears, and silence. Because visibility is not about pity but rather about understanding. And maybe one day soon, people with neurological problems won't have to live invisible lives but rather human ones.

Sources:

.    .    .

Discus