Concussed. Again.

Things were looking hazy, too hazy for my liking, and I decided to get a professional opinion on the consequences of two recent head traumas. I'd thought they were minor, just lie-back-for-five-minutes-and-you'll-be-fine things.

The verdict: "Concussion, whiplash. Again. We're giving you a helmet for Christmas."

My doctor speaks tongue in cheek, but behind the quip I know is genuine concern for me and a hope that I will stop unintentionally hurting myself. I don't even know why these things keep happening; it isn't as if I'm deliberately careless, one of those self-loathing types who inflict a non-stop stream of "accidents" upon themselves. I don't understand the question "Why do you keep doing these things?", which is what some people ask me when they hear of the latest episode. I resist the urge to pull out another of my sarcastic comebacks like, "Because it feels so good to stop," because I am just as sick of them as I am of the injuries. I will only ever have this one brain and I would like it, from now on, to have a safe and trouble-free existence in which to co-ordinate life as I know it.