Actor Brad Pitt revealed in a recent interview that he suffers from prosopagnosia, a rare neurological disorder also known as “facial blindness.”
Dani Blum describes the disorder’s signs, causes, and remedies in an article for the New York Times.
Borna Bonakdarpour, a behavioral neurologist at Northwestern Medicine, claims that face blindness—not color blindness or general vision impairment—is the main symptom of prosopagnosia.
The National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke states that there is no connection between the illness and memory loss, vision problems, or learning impairments.
Blum continues, “It is not the same as forgetting or occasionally having trouble finding the correct word.
The severity of prosopagnosia will differ from person to person.
For instance, some people might have problems identifying a familiar face, such as that of a close friend or relative, while others might have trouble identifying their own reflection.
Additionally, some people might not be able to distinguish between faces and objects.
Notably, some data indicates that individuals with prosopagnosia may have chronic anxiety or depression due to the loneliness and fear that are frequently associated with the illness.
Blum notes that some people avoid contact with family members and other loved ones out of concern that they won’t be able to properly recognize or acknowledge them.
“Navigating basic social relationships with prosopagnosia can become difficult,” she says.
Pitt admitted that he has trouble recognizing people’s faces for years in a recent interview with GQ, despite never having gotten a formal prosopagnosia diagnosis.
In fact, Pitt claimed in a 2013 interview with Esquire that his difficulty recognizing people’s appearances was so great that it frequently made him want to isolate himself.
He explained, “That’s why I stay at home.
What is the condition’s cause?
People who are diagnosed with prosopagnosia often fall into one of two categories: either they are born with it or they acquire it.
However, estimations reveal that as many as one in every 50 people may struggle with some lifetime form of the disorder, and experts hypothesize that it may run in families.
According to Blum, research “suggests that congenital, or lifelong, prosopagnosia is less prevalent.”
According to Andrey Stojic, director of general neurology at the Cleveland Clinic, children born with the illness “don’t seem to have any visible structural abnormality” in the brain.
Notably, doctors don’t fully understand what causes congenital prosopagnosia because there aren’t any obvious brain lesions in persons who have it.
In contrast, people who develop prosopagnosia later in life may have brain abnormalities brought on by a trauma or head injury.
According to Bonakdarpour, individuals can also develop prosopagnosia while dealing with Alzheimer’s illness or following a stroke.
What therapies are available for prosopagnosia?
Prosopagnosia is now untreatable, according to Bonakdarpour. The problem can be treated, though.
People who have the syndrome frequently attempt to distinguish between people by focusing on physical characteristics like hair color, gait, or voice.
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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