Sometimes, with a tough topic, I find it best to approach obliquely via humor. So when I set out to write about mental wellness, naturally my first thought was WWDBD: “What Would DuckBob Do?” The vignette below is the result. I hope you enjoy it, and that even while you laugh you recognize that this is a serious topic and matters a great deal to me and to many others. Thanks.

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“Tell me,” the shrink demanded, “about your mother.”

“Why?” I asked. “Is she next on your hit list?” I turned my head to glare at him, though I had to be careful doing that—even with my neck muscles, it’s way too easy for me to get whiplash. Friends learned early on never to sneak up on me—and a good many ambulance chasers learned not to pay people to do it, either. “I only let you in because you tricked me, you know.”

“I did not trick you,” he replied, folding his arms over his chest and sounding very affronted. “I laid out the terms of engagement very clearly, and you chose to follow them. To the letter, I might add.” His lips twitched under his big, bushy mustache. Great, at least somebody was amused.

“Oh, come on!” I sat up so I could stare at him better. “You snuck in through the mail slot!”

“It is not sneaking,” the shrink insisted primly. “That is my normal mode of transport to visit potential new clients.”

“Disguised as a ‘you just won!’ flier?”

“You did win,” he replied. “You won the opportunity for a one-to-one consultation with one of the universe’s greatest psychoanalysts. Namely, me.” He puffed up at that last bit—literally, he grew to nearly twice his previous size.

And I hadn’t even added any more water this time.

When I’d gotten the flier just a few minutes ago, my first thought was “yeah, sure, whatever.” I used to get that kind of crap all the time back on Earth, fliers and letters and emails that said “Hey, you just won!” and then if you read the rest or clicked on the link you found out that, sure, you won—the chance to be buried under a whole bunch of legalese mumbo-jumbo that, if you got right down to brass tacks, told you that you could have a brand-new car or a shiny new laptop or your own line of personalized dog food. Provided you signed over a sum equal to ten years’ salary, plus any real estate you owned, plus your kidneys, plus that old, busted Evil Knievel action figure you’d had since you were a kid and just couldn’t bear to part with. I’ve never understood how they knew about that last one, since it was tucked safely away inside an equally vintage Speed Buggy lunch box.

But this one caught my eye because, instead of saying “call this number!” or “send all your money to this address!” or ‘visit us online!” it just said “if you’d like to receive your prize, set this flier on a flat, clean surface and sprinkle a few drops of water onto it.”

So I did. I figured, what was the worst that could happen? I’d wind up with a damp flier and maybe a new stain on the coffee table.

Yeah, you’d think after all these months out here at the center of the galaxy, I’d know better by now.

No sooner did I spritz the paper with water than it starts swelling upward, like the ugliest tumor ever on fast forward. And right up from the paper pops this guy.

I’m saying “guy” because of the mustache, but honestly, that’s just me doing mental shorthand. He’s also got long blond braids like Heidi or Sven the Vainglorious, after all. And big, faceted bug eyes. And wriggly bits where his ears should be.

Still, he is wearing a nice suit, all dark gray and kinda shimmery, like it’s gray silk or something. The top half, anyway. He basically stops at the waist, right where the flier sits.

Obviously, my first question was, “How’d you do that?”

“Oh, this?” he answered with a sniff. “Simple. I extrude a tiny portion of my psyche through a thin liquid-activated lens embedded in the paper. This allows me to see multiple patients at once, and to arrange consultations in any location at a moment’s notice. Now,” he demanded, folding his arms over his chest, “Tell me about your mother.”

And here we were.

“What do you want to know about her for, anyway?” I asked. “I thought I won a free consultation, shouldn’t you be asking about me?”

“It isn’t a free consultation,” he corrected. “What you won was the opportunity to have this consultation. I have a very extensive waiting list for new clients, you know.”

“Oh yeah? Pour water on it and see what happens,” I suggested. Yeah, this guy was annoying me.

It didn’t help that my couch had decided to be helpful. The second this guy had appeared and started in with his Sigmund Freud from the Stars routine, it morphed itself into a classic psychiatrist couch, the low-slung kind that angled up on one side so you could lay flat against it but have your head higher than your feet. I used to wonder how it even knew to come up with so many different shapes, until the time I caught it reading a magazine called “1001 new furniture shapes from across the galaxy.” It blushed a deep scarlet when it saw me there, and stayed that color for almost a month. I had to tell people I’d spilled ten gallons of wine just so they’d stop wondering about the change in décor.

So here I was, laying back on a shrink’s couch, talking to a shrink. Something I swore I’d never do after the time that one guy visited our school when we were kids. I still remember him suggesting to Ma that, if she just turned her house into a mental ward, she’d already have all the beds filled and she’d get a really good tax break.

Honestly, I think what made her balk was the idea of putting bars on all the windows. She’s never been big on home improvements. Besides, she knew we’d just dig a new escape tunnel if that happened.

“All right, fine,” the shrink huffed finally. “We won’t talk about your mother, though clearly you have some Oedipal issues to work through.” He produced a pipe from a pocket and stuffed it into his mouth—literally shoved the whole thing into his mouth and started chewing like it was taffy, then began blowing what looked like big iridescent bubbles that, as they popped, smelled faintly like some kind of floral tobacco. “What would you like to talk about? Your job? Your love life? Your inability to—”

“Whoa, hold it right there!” I stopped him, raising a hand. “That was one time! And I wasn’t ready! And have you ever tried to make a Florenscu flying omelet-wrap? Those things are a nightmare! Especially when you don’t have the right cheese. Or the right jet-powered spatula. Or the right number of hands.” I shuddered just thinking about that particular little cooking experiment. I’d be hoping to impress Mary with my culinary genius. Instead I got to demonstrate just how long it took to scrape bits of cheese and egg off the ceiling.

“Very well.” He looked like he was pouting, though it was tough to tell under the mustache. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I—” Huh. I hadn’t really expected him to ask me that. For a second, I was stumped. But, as anybody who knows me will tell you, I can never stay quiet for very long. Or at all, really. I even talk in my sleep, Mary says. Though at least then I do different voices. She’s particularly entertained by my Muppet-themed dreams, and keeps threatening to record them and turn them into a podcast.

So what did I want to talk to a shrink about, now that I had one here?

“I . . . might have a few concerns,” I admitted cautiously. Because I know that saying that to a shrink is like going to a doctor and saying “Something hurts.” It’s like giving them an excuse to print money. And sure enough, this one’s eyes lit up when I said that. Not literally, though, because beams shooting from all those facets at once? I’d have been blind or transported back to the last ELO concert for sure. This was more like a gentle glow. Still, it was clear he was excited.

At least he made some effort not to sound too eager when he asked, “What sort of concerns?”

“Well,” I waved a hand past him, past the living room, toward the main room of the complex. “You see that?” He twisted about and stared for a second at the arena-sized room and the strange, glittering, glowing, weaving thing circling slowly about it. “That’s the Matrix. Like, the Matrix. The one that protects the entire universe. And me? I’m its guardian. Me. DuckBob Spinowitz. Defender of the galaxy.” I shook my head. “My last job? I worked in a cube, in an office. I literally compared row upon row of numbers on one screen to the same thing on another, and clicked a button whenever one didn’t match. That’s it. I don’t even know what those numbers were, who they were for, what happened when I clicked, but seeing as how we were an office supplies firm, I doubt it was much more than ‘oh, the Hendersons got too many paper clips again.’ Now? I’m in charge of protecting the cosmos. It’s kinda a big step up, you know?”

He nodded. “You have Imposter’s Syndrome,” he explained.

“What? No, I can roleplay just fine—you should see me do Woody Woodpecker.” But he was already shaking his head.

“Imposter’s Syndrome means you worry that people have mistaken you for someone far more talented than you really are, or more valuable in some way, and that they will figure out the truth and shun you as a result,” he explained.

“Oh.” I thought about that a second. “Yeah. I guess. Though I did save the universe once already. No, twice. Okay, and the Earth once, which could’ve spread, so maybe three times total? It’s been a busy year.”

Now he was the one staring. At least I think so. Anyway, his bug eyes seemed bigger than before, and his mustache was sticking straight out to either side. “This is not an exaggeration or a figure of speech?” he asked slowly. “You have really and truly saved the universe? More than once?”

“Well, yeah,” I admitted. “At least, that’s what the Grays said.”

“Hm.” He leaned back and tried to look all calm and professional again. “Many people suffer from Imposter’s Syndrome, and in most cases their fears are natural but unfounded, just a result of the fact that they care about what they are doing and worry that they will not be able to meet everyone’s expectations. I suspect that yours are the same here. You are not an imposter or a fraud, even if you sometimes feel that you are.” He stroked his mustaches, smoothing them back into place. “What else?”

“Uh,” I considered saying “nothing, that was it, seeya, bye,” but couldn’t stop myself. “Sometimes I get down a bit,” I admitted instead.

“Down? How?” Again his eyes were glowing, so I could tell he thought he’d struck therapeutic gold here.

I just shrugged. “It gets lonely here sometimes, you know? Used to be, when I first landed this gig, I literally had to be chained to the Matrix twenty-four-seven. Ned rigged up something so I could at least sit out there, and get to the john, but I couldn’t go more than twenty, thirty feet away, ’cause that was long as the wires stretched.” A sigh slipped out before I could clamp my bill shut. “Ned stopped by every few weeks to check on the tech, and Tall came by sometimes for reports, and Mary would stop in whenever she was free, but that was about it. I was stuck here, all on my lonesome, and I’m not all that good with just me and my thoughts. They tend to jump out when I’m not looking and gang up on me. So, yeah, I got a little low. Started wondering why I bothered, what the point was, stuff like that.”

“And now?” the shrink asked. “I notice that you are using the past tense when referring to all this.”

“Oh, yeah.” I tapped the headset Ned had designed for me, which still looked a lot like a Barbie tiara worn backward so it rose up behind my head like the world’s ugliest reverse pompadour. “Ned made this thing, so now I’m plugged into the Matrix anywhere in the galaxy. I can come and go as I please, though I still live here most of the time. So it’s a lot better—I can go home and see my mom, hang out with my old friends, have lunch at my favorite pizza place, all that.”

“Then it sounds like you are no longer feeling down.” He stroked his mustaches again. “What did you do when you were? How did that manifest?”

I thought about that. “I cleaned a lot,” I answered finally. “And took up cooking. And talked to people on the phone a whole bunch.”

“Oh? You did not cut yourself off from all contact? Curl up in a ball? Sleep most of the time?” He seemed genuinely surprised by this. Guessed I’d stumped him a little. Ha, Stump the Shrink—it’s either a new party game or some new plan to miniaturize old tree stumps after they’d been cut down. Which could still be a party game, come to think of it.

“Naw,” I answered. “I’ve never been a big one for that, you know? I need to move around too much for that—I sit still too long, I get antsy. And cut myself off from everybody? I talk too much, and I’d rather talk to other people than just myself. When it’s just me, I already know the punchline to all my jokes.” I shook my head—carefully. “I’d call Tall or Ma or Mary or Ned or some of the old gang. That helped a lot.”

“Yes.” He nodded slowly. “It would. When you said you got ‘down’ I assumed you meant that you were depressed. Most people, when depressed, isolate themselves because they feel unworthy of contact and are convinced that no one will care that they are not there. True depression is not only mentally but physiologically debilitating—those who suffer from it often find themselves feeling weak and lethargic, in large part because they see little point in mustering the energy to move.”

“Oh.” I thought about that. “Wow, that would suck. Naw, I don’t have that, I guess.”

“You do not appear to, no,” he agreed. “Depression does not require a trigger, and indeed often occurs when the individual is in a good situation otherwise—it simply occurs without warning or reason, which can make it extremely difficult to treat. You do seem to have some feelings of anxiety and unhappiness brought on by isolation, which is understandable given your location and solitary occupation. The best response to this, of course, is to force yourself to resume contact and reassure yourself that people care about you and would notice your absence. You seem to have grasped that intuitively.”

I was still thinking about what he’d said. “You know, one of my buddies back home, Leo, he told me once that he gets depressed sometimes,” I mentioned finally. “I just thought he meant the same stuff I just said, feeling down and all. I didn’t realize it was as bad you said.” I scratched my cheek, right where the bill starts. “Come to think of it, there’d be weeks where I wouldn’t see or hear from him or anything.”

The shrink nodded. “He was most likely battling his depression during those disappearances.”

“Crap. I should’ve called him, huh?”

“It might have helped,” the shrink agreed, “but it might not have. When a person has depression, they must combat their inner voice before they are ready to heed external ones. Though knowing that others are concerned for you is never a bad thing.”

“Inner voice, huh?” I laughed. “Yeah, I don’t really have one of those. If I think it, I say it. Always been that way—born without a filter, that’s me.”

“I am sure that has led to some . . . complications from time to time,” he noted. “But for some things, like dealing with depression, it might have proven to be a good thing. Many people suffer from depression because they internalize their feelings instead of expressing them.”

“Ha, no, I express ’em all,” I said. “No local deliveries here.”

“Yes, I see, very good.” I couldn’t help thinking, when he said stuff like that, that he was British. He sure sounded like the classic stuffy British butler. Maybe he’d just been watching too many Fawlty Towers reruns beamed out into space. He leaned in. “Any other problems? Feelings of inadequacy? Of not fitting in?” He gestured at me, specifically at my head. “You are from Earth, yes? I recognize the vernacular. But others from your planet, they do not look like you, do they?”

“Ha, no, I’m special,” I agreed. “I’m not the only one the Grays experimented on over the years, but I’m the only one they turned into a duck. Closest I saw was a hawk, once. Fierce-looking dude, too. Except poor guy had scabs all over his chest—every time he’d nod, he’d cut himself. Horrible.”

“I see.” The shrink studied me. “And yet you never felt—dare I say this without sounding facetious?—ostracized due to your appearance?”

I shrugged. “A little, sure. Especially at first, when people’d pull away from me on the subway. But then I just thought, ‘hey, at least now I always get a seat.’ And if people wanted to get all bent out of shape because I’ve got feathers and a duck bill, well, that’s their problem, right? I wasn’t exactly Fabio before, so anybody who knew me and liked me it was because they could look past the outsides already, and this?” I stroked my bill. “This was just more of the same. It’s why I changed my name to DuckBob, you know. I figured there wasn’t any way to hide what I was, so I might as well own it.”

“That . . . is a remarkably healthy attitude,” he said after studying me a moment. “You clearly have a very strong sense of self, but I would not say you were egotistical, just that you know who you are and are comfortable with that.” He sighed, blowing his mustache up away from his lips. “I think there is little I can do to help you.”

“Oh yeah?” I levered myself up on my elbows to look at him properly. “So I’m a lost cause?”

“On the contrary,” he answered, “you are one of the most stable individuals I have had the pleasure to encounter. You know who you are, you know your worth, and, perhaps most importantly, you do not shrink from your thoughts and feelings. When you have concerns or doubts you confront them, and you share them with those closest to you. That is immensely difficult and valuable.” He shook his head again. “If everyone I met was like you, I would soon be out of business.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.” I stood up, and my couch quickly shifted back into its usual more recliner-style configuration. “So, I guess we’re done, then?”

“We are indeed.” The shrink smiled, making his mustache quiver. “Except for the small matter of my fee.”

“Uh huh.” This time I was the one to cross my arms. “Okay, how much is this little soul-baring party gonna set me back?” Honestly, I wasn’t even feeling too upset about his bait-and-switch anymore. It had felt good to talk about this stuff with somebody who didn’t already know me and excuse my behavior, and it was reassuring to know that I wasn’t so bad off, really.

He paused to consider that for a second. “Ten quadrillion bextangles,” he declared finally. “Which, I must point out, is quite a bargain for a professional of my caliber.”

“Yeah, you’re all heart,” I muttered. I turned to my computer, which was just on the other side of the room—I often sat on the couch and had the computer project movies and soap operas for me. “Computer,” I said, waking it up, “show me Earth and Galactic Core equivalents to ten quadrillion bextangles.”

The screen lit up, displaying a whole series of options. One of them, turmeric oleoresin, caught my eye. I knew that one, if only because I’m the kind of guy who obsessively reads the ingredients lists on everything I eat. Hey, it’s how I learned to say most of the major colors in a whole bunch of languages!

“Here,” I said, stepping away to snag a box of Wheat Thins from the kitchen and returning to toss them at the shrink. “Knock yourself out.”

He caught the box and studied it skeptically before opening it and extracting one of the small, flat, square crackers. Then he extended a tongue like a butterfly’s, long and thin and curling, and wrapped that around the cracker. Ugh. “Oh, my,” he exclaimed, his words a little distorted ’cause he was talking with food in his tongue. “Turmeric oleoresin and calcium phosphate and I believe I detect glucose and fructose as well? Heavenly!” He considered the box, hefting it a little. “This is far more than ten quadrillion, you know.”

“Eh, that’s fine—consider it a tip,” I told him.

“Thank you.” He closed the box and tucked it protectively under one arm. “Now if I could trouble you to sever the lens’ connection? Simply apply heat to its surface.”

“Oh. Right.” Over on my desk I had a small hand-warmer—hey, it got chilly here sometimes, even for a guy covered in down!—and I grabbed that. “Here we go.” I switched it on and waved it over what I could see of the flier around the guy’s torso.

“Thank you.” He bowed from the waist even as he shrank. “It has been a pleasure. Please keep the flier, and if you ever have need of me again, just reapply water.” He was dwindling faster and faster, and now I was waving the warmer across the entire flier, including the part he was on.

“Yeah, sure,” I told him, but he was already barely more than a bubble. Then there was a pop, and the paper was flat again.

I turned the hand-warmer back off—it was comfortable in here today, so I didn’t need it—and scooped up the flier. For a second I thought about keeping it, but then I folded it and stuck it off to the side instead. Tall was coming by tomorrow to catch a game, and I’d slip it into his pocket then.

I couldn’t wait to hear what the shrinky dink made of him!

In the meantime, I figured I’d go give Leo a call. Like the shrink said, it probably couldn’t hurt. Maybe I’d see if he wanted to grab lunch and chat a bit. Get stuff off his chest. I’m a good listener, when I’m not talking.

I figured I could charge him two boxes of Wheat Thins and turn a profit on this whole shrink thing.

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About the campaign:

#HoldOnToTheLight is a blog campaign encompassing blog posts by fantasy and science fiction authors around the world in an effort to raise awareness around treatment for depression, suicide prevention, domestic violence intervention, PTSD initiatives, bullying prevention and other mental health-related issues. We believe fandom should be supportive, welcoming and inclusive, in the long tradition of fandom taking care of its own. We encourage readers and fans to seek the help they or their loved ones need without shame or embarrassment.

Please consider donating to or volunteering for organizations dedicated to treatment and prevention such as: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, Hope for the Warriors (PTSD), National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Canadian Mental Health Association, MIND (UK), SANE (UK), BeyondBlue (Australia), To Write Love On Her Arms (TWLOHA) and the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.

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