Battling Back

Bill Mahoney was partying in a hotel room in the Keys the first time he telepathically entered the mind of another human being, what he dubbed a “mind-meld.” Then a freshman at the University of Florida, Mahoney was on spring break. During his first semester at school, Bill, a Naples native, had started smoking pot and then meditating. The combination had been transformative; his mind raced, it seemed, through planes of existence, seeking oneness with the universe. Enlightenment. In fact, by winter break, Bill was sure that he was akin to Buddha. But he didn’t tell his friends. That’s ridiculous, logic said.

However, that night in the Keys, amidst a throng of pot-smoking, alcohol-dazed college kids, Bill crossed his legs in the classic yoga pose and finally achieved the elusive Enlightenment. “Suddenly, I felt other people’s thoughts,” he says. “Emotions and thoughts intertwined into this sense that I could pick up on.” And why wouldn’t he trust it? His telepathy wasn’t solely in his mind; he felt it—physically. His skin tingled as it absorbed waves of thought. Spiders crawled across his body. His skin itched like crazy.

Back in Gainesville, the mind-melds increased. For many reasons, they were exciting. After all, Bill was the spiritual center of the universe. But there were drawbacks, too. The mental links worked as a two-way street, allowing friends and strangers to trespass in his thoughts. Bill, for example, had always been insecure about the redness of his nose. In psychology class, the professor (after Bill tried to hack his mind) put a picture of a nose on the front board and everyone laughed—at him!

So began Bill’s break with reality. What started as an adolescent dalliance with pot and philosophy, a young man’s search for something higher than himself, soon became a full-blown psychotic break. In the coming weeks, he crowned himself Jesus Christ, conversed with the devil and rebuked his mother for trying to sexually molest him, which she was not doing.

Until the 1970s, a break like Bill’s would’ve likely been treated by institutionalization (see below)—warehousing him in a state mental hospital. But thanks to 1971’s Florida Mental Health Act, or Baker Act, the mentally ill cannot be committed unless they are a danger to themselves or others. If someone is “Baker Acted,” authorities can hold them for only three days while they are examined by professionals at crisis stabilization units. This led to deinstitutionalization in Florida, with the state replacing its reliance on state hospitals with 104 smaller crisis stabilization units. These centers receive people who have been Baker Acted, and Collier County’s only facility is located at The David Lawrence Center in Naples.

Recent events, however, have led to a renewed conversation about the treatment of the mentally ill. Some blame deinstitutionalization for increasing the homeless population; others say that the stringent requirements for commitment keep violent people on the street. An examination of Bill’s descent, however, shows that current treatment methods work, but that maintaining mental wellness relies on a committed support system. For Bill, that backing came from parents who refused to give up on their son, even in his darkest hour.

But before Bill and his family could think about getting better, things got worse. Much worse.

Descent Into Darkness

On his way to the Keys for spring break, Bill stopped at home in Naples. He arrived at his parents’ door wearing jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and a toboggan. For a beach vacation. On one hand that was odd behavior. On the other hand, “that’s just Billy being Billy,” Claudia, his mother, says. Slight, with shaggy red hair and boyish good looks, Bill was a high school introvert at Palmetto Ridge until his senior year. Always a good student (he entered UF having completed 27 college credits), Bill shook off three years of isolation, placed a hiatus on his video gaming and reconnected with long-ignored friends. It was a beatnik crowd, sure, but they accepted Bill and his “ditzy” manner. “He’s very intelligent, but his common sense is zero. That’s why we call him the ‘Nutty Professor,’” Claudia says. 

Any fears Claudia had before the Keys trip were allayed when he returned home, his skin red with sun and his spirit seemingly refreshed. But two weeks later, back at UF, Bill began complaining to his father, Matt, about his roommates. “They’re sending me messages through my mind,” he told Matt. Worse yet, they were sexually explicit messages. First, there had been a wink. Then, it got worse; one of the roommates entered Bill’s mind and threatened to rape him. “You have to stop, man!” Bill screamed. “I can’t handle this!”

After Bill promised to spend the night at a friend’s, Claudia and Matt drove to Gainesville to check on their son. Again, Bill appeared normal. But when they went to lunch, before getting into the Mahoneys’ van, Bill let his parents in on the secret. He pointed to a woman jogging down the sidewalk. The jogger bent down and picked something up. “See! See!” Bill exclaimed. “I made her do that!” Another walker dropped a tennis ball, and Bill claimed credit for that, too. “He kept on and on,” Matt says. At lunch, it got worse.

“He was laughing,” Matt says.

“Yeah, like he was having a conversation with himself in his head that nobody else knew,” Claudia says.

Back on campus, Matt and Claudia talked to the dorm adviser about moving Bill into another room. No dice. Claudia entertained the idea of putting her job on hold and moving with Bill into a hotel room. But, again, just as these plans were rolling into action, Bill’s strange behavior subsided. “Don’t worry,” he assured them. “It’ll be fine. It’s just a matter of me growing up a little bit.” Hesitant but hopeful, Matt and Claudia drove home.