Undivided

by Vicky Beeching

  Proficient in several instruments by then, I played guitar, drums, and piano and then layered vocals and harmonies on the four-track tape. Finally, I finished it off with synth pads and some harmonica.

  My parents and sister could barely walk around our living room for weeks, as I’d filled it with cables, wires, amplifiers, and instruments. A piece of paper taped to the door, scribbled in my handwriting, read: QUIET PLEASE: RECORDING IN PROGRESS. I’m grateful that my family was infinitely patient and supportive of my musical quest.

  Once the finished demo tape was in my hands, I sent it to one of the UK’s biggest Christian record labels. It was a shot in the dark, but worth a go. To my amazement, they chose one of my songs out of thousands of submissions and featured it on a CD. A copy of the album arrived in the mail, and my family and I sat around and listened to it together. My crazy summer of cables, wires, and recording equipment had opened a significant door.

  Spurred on by this, I worked on other songs, hopeful that they’d be published and recorded too. The following year, at one of the Christian youth camps I attended, the leader brought me up in front of five thousand attendees and spoke about how impressed he was with my songwriting. After that, other teenagers came up to me all week, saying hello or asking me to sign their copy of the CD. It was heady stuff for someone still in high school, but instead of making me develop an ego, it just fueled my desire to be the best Christian I could be. I didn’t want to let anyone down.

  I discovered that plenty of people made a living recording Christian music and touring across the UK, the US, and Canada. Once I knew this, I wondered if it could ever become my full-time career; I certainly hoped it might. It felt like my childhood dream of becoming a missionary, but through music. I want to be a musicianary, I joked to myself. This dream brought up lots of insecurities too—I worried that I wasn’t good enough at singing or songwriting—but most of all it brought up embarrassment about my “secret personal struggles.”

  Amid the growing musical opportunities in my teens, my sexuality hadn’t shown any signs of being a phase. My feelings for girls were real as ever. Daily, I played mind games with myself to silence the thoughts. Who you’re attracted to isn’t a big part of life anyway, I told myself. I mean, it’s just one small fraction of what it means to be human. I can shut it out, stay single, and have a perfectly happy and fulfilled future . . . I was trying to compartmentalize my heart, and silence my emotions, but it was a struggle I couldn’t seem to win.

  Because of this, despite the exciting musical doors that were opening, I was feeling less and less enthusiastic about life. As I segmented my identity into good and bad parts, I felt like I was fragmenting. A dark cloud fell from the sky and settled over my mind and heart.

  In my anxiety, I created long, detailed prayers that I would recite to myself each time I felt attracted to a girl. It was my own private liturgy—my internal confession booth—in which I told God how sorry I was ten times a day. My mind became a complex place, a far cry from the mind of the simple, happy child I had been before.

  Friends in my class noticed a change in my previously carefree personality. I became aloof and felt awkward in my own skin; I slouched my shoulders and didn’t look people in the eye. Mostly I had my Walkman headphones plugged in, shutting out the world, with my midnight-blue denim jacket buttoned all the way up to the top like a suit of armor.

  I began throwing my packed lunches away and stopped eating during school hours. I didn’t know how to relate to my body anymore. It seemed to be betraying me with its sinful desires, so I didn’t want to give it food. My flesh and blood were now the enemy; I was fighting a battle against myself.

  Do you think there’s any chance he likes me?” one girl asked, looking hopeful, as she ate her sandwich. “I mean, he did sit next to me on the bus the other day—and I could’ve sworn he was looking at my hair and my outfit. I just can’t stop thinking about him.”

  I never knew quite how to handle these conversations. I wanted to be part of the crowd, so I listened to my classmates sharing their latest stories. But when someone casually asked me, “So, Vicky, which of the guys do you like? Anyone you’ve got your eye on? Who have you been kissing lately?!” I felt totally stumped. Stumbling over my words, I would say, “Oh, no one really . . . ,” but that recurring answer was only making people ask more frequently, as they were curious.

  I’d had my first kiss somewhere around the age of twelve or thirteen. It was with a boy, of course, as girls were, in my mind, forever off-limits. In keeping with my outdoorsy, countryside childhood, it had happened when we were sitting in a field of tall yellow flowers; so tall that they stood far above our heads, swaying in the summer breeze. And the boy I’d sat in tree houses, splashed in rivers, and run through wheat fields with since we were nine was the one who’d decided to kiss me.

  It was a first kiss that almost anyone would treasure, picturesque in location and with someone I cared for. But I felt nothing for him beyond the platonic friendship we’d always shared. My heart was wired differently, so I couldn’t reciprocate his attraction. So my first kiss, despite being a happy memory because of our friendship, was not one I felt a romantic connection to. At the time, I wondered if maybe I would feel something for other guys; perhaps he was more like a brother than a boyfriend to me, I’d thought.

  Several other interested boys came and went during my high-school years, mostly just friends I bonded with over guitars. My heart would sink if those guys began looking at me differently, as I knew what was coming. They’d tell me about their feelings, and I’d be forced to choose: try dating them and see if any feelings appeared or admit what I already knew, that I was gay and attraction to boys would never be there.

  When one of these male friends tried to kiss me at a bus stop, nothing about it made my heart skip a beat or gave me butterflies—but I did feel all of those things when I looked at the girls I liked. Kissing somebody male felt unnatural and awkward to me, like playing a forced role in the film of my life, an understudy for the person I was trying to become. But it felt important to explore this—I was figuring out who I was, and I was desperate to fit in.

  I said yes to dating a few of my male friends, but they were deeply hurt when I broke up with them only weeks into our fledgling relationship. I couldn’t tell them the truth about why I had no attraction to them—so I was left grasping at clichés like “It’s not you; it’s me” or “You’re more like a brother to me.” It was an emotional car crash for both of us every time; we both walked away hurt, and they had a sense of confusion because my reasons for breaking up were never fully convincing.

  As my female classmates and I arrived at the legal age of consent to have sex (sixteen years old in the UK), conversations about “fancying boys” became more serious and progressed further. Some of the older girls were claiming to have “gone all the way.” I’m sure much of it was just bravado, but a number of my peers at school were now sexually active. This, in turn, would bring a new degree of heartache for me.

  Once, on my way to a science lesson, the blue-eyed girl in my class whom I’d fallen for three years earlier and still couldn’t seem to get over said she wanted to go on a walk with me at break time to tell me something. Getting to spend time with her alone was the Holy Grail for me, and I thought about nothing else all morning.

  We met at lunchtime and walked across the school field to the secluded area where tall trees lined the edges. It was June and unseasonably hot with scorching sunshine, so we tied our sweaters around our waists and kicked at the dry grass.

  Leaning against a tree, she looked around nervously, scanning for teachers, and reached into her bag. Pulling out a cigarette, she lit it and inhaled the smoke to calm her nerves. Perhaps one reason I liked her so much was because she was my polar opposite. Known as a troublemaker, she always seemed so sure of herself and willing to challenge the status quo. There was something beautifully dangerous about her.

  She cleared her throat, preparing to tell m
e her news. Ever the optimist, I wondered if she was going to tell me that she liked me—that she was gay. (Of course, she had no idea that I was or that I liked her in that way, as I put immense energy into hiding it.) That lunchtime, as she looked into my eyes, nothing could have been further from her mind.

  “So,” she began, “I’ve decided . . . I mean, I think I’m ready to . . .” She paused to take another drag of her cigarette. “I’m ready to . . . have sex with him. I think I’m . . . in love with him,” she said, her face flushed.

  Her boyfriend had been keen to sleep with her ever since she’d turned sixteen, and here she was, telling me she was going to do it. I coughed and looked away. She thought I had cigarette smoke in my eyes and apologized, exhaling slowly in the opposite direction.

  “So what do you think?” she asked. “I mean, I know your faith wouldn’t condone it, but apart from that, what do you think, as my friend?”

  “Friend” rang in my ears. That was all I would ever be to her. All I would ever be to any of these girls, now or ever. All I could mumble in response to her question was “Well, I guess only you can know when you’re ready . . .”

  My heart broke into a hundred pieces as I processed the news she’d shared. It wasn’t that I wanted to sleep with her—my feelings were far more innocent than that, plus I believed that sex should only happen within marriage, as that’s what my church had raised me to think. I just wanted some sort of emotional exclusivity with her, where I was the one she ran to when she was frightened or happy. I wouldn’t have allowed myself the “sinful” behavior of kissing or dating her even if she had been interested, as my faith made that impossible for me. Liking her had felt much easier when she was single, but now that she was seriously dating a guy, it was a constant reminder to me that she was falling in love with him and not with me.

  Anytime I found myself thinking of her in that way, I shut the feelings down at once, as guilt and shame rushed in. But as we stood there talking, I felt lost in her gaze. She seemed closer than ever, and yet now, based on this news, she’d never been further away.

  “I guess we’d better go back for afternoon class,” she said, stubbing her cigarette out on the trunk of the tree. We started our walk back, and when we reached the school entrance, I told her I’d see her later.

  I made my way to one of the bathrooms, locked the stall door behind me, and stood with my back against it. Silent tears fell down my cheeks, creating a mess of black mascara. I slid down the back of the door until I was sitting on the floor and, pulling my knees into my chest, I sobbed into the thick blue wool of my school sweater.

  5

  July arrived and the heat wave continued, but to me it felt cold and overcast as I processed the news the beautiful blue-eyed girl had shared with me. A few weeks later, I found out she had gone ahead and slept with her boyfriend. I managed to avoid hearing the finer details from her, but was told enough that my heart felt stabbed by a thousand knives.

  I couldn’t wait for August and the long school vacation. The only glimmers of happiness on my horizon were the big Christian youth camps I attended every summer break, so I busied my mind by looking forward to those.

  I’d had great experiences at those camps throughout my teens—several thousand young people all camping in tents, eating way too many hamburgers and donuts, gathering in a big venue to sing, and listening to energetic speakers firing us up about our faith. They were always a highlight for me, mostly because I was around other people like me: young, Christian, and passionate about God.

  Those camps taught me a lot about developing into a well-rounded adult: about how to be a good leader, put others first, keep your word, dream big, and live a meaningful life. And they always had fantastic music with some of London’s finest session players. Watching them during the meetings and sneaking in to see their rehearsals if I could, I grew leaps and bounds in my own understanding of how to play in bands.

  Nursing my broken heart, I was glad when August finally arrived and I could head to Soul Survivor, a camp held in the southwest of England. It was as great as ever, and I came away feeling inspired and encouraged. After a few days at home to get clean laundry and catch up on sleep, I headed to my second camp, one that would be held in a large showground in Warwickshire, and I couldn’t wait for it to start.

  Initially, I was enthusiastic, joining in with the singing and praying, but somehow all my feelings of shame, heartache, and isolation caught up with me. The energy of the camp helped lift my spirits, but, underneath, my heart was still aching about the girl from school and my unrequited feelings for her.

  One night this played on my mind so much that I couldn’t stay in the worship gathering, so I walked out into the evening air, gazing up at a sky full of stars. I was a tenacious young person, but my resilience was being tested to the hilt. I was breaking under the weight of shame and anxiety, believing I had to keep this secret forever.

  As the chill of the night gave me goose bumps, and I shivered in my thin t-shirt, I prayed: “God, you have to do something this week. You have to heal me. I need to be straight; you have to set me free from these feelings. All I want is your will—to be who you want me to be. You’ve always been first in my life—and always will be. So do something at this camp. Change me. I’m desperate, and I need your help.”

  Staring up at the starlit sky, I told myself that this time it would work. This time, God would answer and perform some kind of miracle. This week, I assured myself, would finally be the moment I got free from the orientation that was driving me to desperation.

  I couldn’t face going back into the meeting, so I headed to my tent. The voices of thousands of young people singing their hearts out in the main venue carried on the breeze. I felt so far away from it all at that moment—an outsider, both literally and figuratively, living behind a wall of shame and fear. Exhausted, I climbed into my tent and fell into a fitful sleep.

  Two nights later at the camp, it seemed as if my prayer might have been answered. The sermon was about God’s power, that Jesus could heal us and set us free from any form of addiction, sin, or shame. After the sermon, several young people my age were invited onto the stage to share their stories—or testimonies. One teenage boy said he had been “set free from alcoholism.” He’d started drinking at thirteen and developed a major addiction. After being prayed for last year at this same summer camp, he had never drunk alcohol again.

  Another teenage guy stepped up to the microphone saying he’d been “set free from the sin of pornography.” After growing obsessed with porn magazines and videos (which the church saw as entirely inappropriate and sinful), he’d had prayer ministry last year and managed to break his habit entirely.

  The last young person to speak was a girl with long curly red hair. She was, perhaps, a year or two older than me. Shyly, she said into the microphone that she’d been “set free from the sin of homosexuality.” My cheeks flushed, and I squirmed in my seat. I looked at my friends nervously, hoping they hadn’t noticed my face turn red.

  The red-haired girl went on to say that, after being prayed for last year, all her feelings for girls had gone. She ended her testimony emphasizing how relieved she was “not to be gay anymore,” so that she could now live a life that pleased God at last.

  I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. Although I knew the Pentecostal and evangelical view on homosexuality, I’d never heard of anyone who’d been changed from gay to straight. The timing of it all felt so pertinent to the prayer I’d prayed two nights earlier.

  The red-haired girl’s bravery seemed amazing to me. I sat in awe of her as she stood there, in front of thousands of other teenagers, telling her story so confidently. She stepped down from the stage, and the preacher motioned for the worship band to play some soft music. Then came the moment of invitation—the altar call or ministry time, as it’s known in charismatic circles.

  The leader gave us an invitation: “Come up to the front of the auditorium if you want to get prayed for and b
e set free from whatever is holding you captive.” As the band began to play, he added, “God can break the chains of any addiction; just step out in faith. People will be standing up here—well-trained adults—ready to pray with you. Just come forward and take the step tonight.”

  I knew I had to respond, but my face was crimson with embarrassment at the idea of walking to the front, with my friends and thousands of other young people watching. It seemed an impossible task.

  The lights were dimmed a little, and everyone was encouraged to stand and sing. As people moved from sitting to standing, and under the cover of the dimmed lighting, I slipped out of my chair and began the long walk to the front of the auditorium.

  Arriving at the front, I found a long line of ministry team members waiting, Christian adults who had been trained to pray with us. Other teens had arrived before me, and several were deep in prayer. Each had two adults, one on either side, speaking aloud as they asked God for healing and freedom.

  I’d had great experiences with those ministry times before—the adults were always kind and sensitive, eager to help younger Christians grow in their faith. Unfortunately, that evening was different.

  Two adults walked up to me and smiled. They put me at ease and said, “Well done for being brave enough to come all the way to the front.” We exchanged smiles, although mine was fleeting and nervous.

  “So what can we pray about for you? What would you like God to set you free from tonight?” they asked.

  I wished I could invent something inane, like being scared of the dark, stealing my sister’s pocket money out of her piggy bank, or being rude to my parents. But I had to deal with reality and face it head-on.