Undivided

by Vicky Beeching

  A knock at the hotel room door interrupted my thoughts—it was time to go to rehearsal. I had no margin for error, as Saddleback’s timing ran like clockwork, with state-of-the-art staging, lighting, sound, and visuals. Their volunteers were, by day, professionals who ran lights and sound for places like Disneyland. So it was high-tech, and I couldn’t be even a minute late to my rehearsal slot.

  A friendly woman in an SUV drove me onto the huge Saddleback campus, and as soon as we arrived, I was swept up in a blur of busyness. The white mark had been put entirely out of my mind, and it would stay that way for weeks, as the workaholism I’d developed over the years kept me moving forward to the next gig, the next plane ride, the next hotel, the next rehearsal. The lifestyle I’d created to drown out my inner sadness and loneliness had me on autopilot, and now it was preventing me from having a moment to investigate what might be wrong with my skin.

  After a couple more months of intensive touring, I noticed a sudden drop in my already dwindling energy. I began to feel drowsy most of the time, and the musicians who traveled with me saw it too. A few nicknamed me Sleeping Beeching, as I’d fall asleep at the merchandise table after concerts, at the airport restaurant, or between sound check and the worship meetings.

  One backup singer joked about starting a Twitter account called Sleeping Beeching, where she’d post pictures she snapped of me napping in weird places. It was nice to laugh about it; it helped. But more seriously, my band agreed that it was worrying. It made me think of the white mark again. “I must get that checked out sometime,” I said, wondering when I’d be back in Nashville for more than a night, so I could visit a dermatologist. But that plan kept getting waylaid by the next tour date, and the next.

  Later that year, the white mark on my forehead changed from white to pink. It was becoming inflamed and itchy. When a photo of my band playing outside at a music festival was posted on social media, my drummer saw it and asked, “What’s wrong with your head?” Now that it showed more obviously, it had my attention again.

  Life had been extra busy lately, as I’d signed with a new label, Integrity Music, which specialized in worship albums and had huge success getting songs into American megachurches. Integrity gave me lots of creative freedom, and the album we were recording was my favorite of any I’d made. It would be titled Eternity Invades, and we were recording it in a studio in San Diego, California.

  Whenever I wasn’t out on tour, we’d been working around the clock to get the vocals finished and everything ready to be mixed and mastered. I knew I had to deal with my forehead, so between vocal sessions I’d made a phone call and finally booked an appointment with a specialist at a medical facility in San Diego. Getting an opinion on what was wrong felt urgent.

  We finished the last vocals on the album, and my producer danced around in celebration, high-fiving me. I joined in, but my mind was on the hospital appointment that I’d be heading to an hour later. I drove off toward downtown San Diego, hoping it would be a harmless diagnosis with a quick solution. Maybe it’s just eczema, I thought. They’ll probably just hand me a tube of antihistamine cream, and I’ll be good to go.

  The dermatologist welcomed me into his office and examined my head. He listened as I told him about my extreme fatigue, constant falling asleep, inability to sleep at night, and now this persistent skin condition. He looked serious as he took a piece of paper out of his drawer. He wrote something down and handed it to me. “You have something quite rare, I’m afraid—and it’s serious,” he said. “It’s called localized scleroderma; the full name is ‘en coup de sabre linear morphea.’ The treatment you’ll need is a form of chemotherapy.”

  He explained that localized scleroderma was an aggressive autoimmune condition in which the body was fighting against itself. This disease morphed healthy skin cells into scar tissue; it literally ate away at the fat, creating scarred areas wherever it took hold.

  “If it’s not treated, the results can be horrendous, and I don’t say that lightly,” he explained. “We need to use strong medication to stop this in its tracks, so your health—and your face—will be as unharmed as possible.” Sensing I had a hundred questions, he added, “I’m afraid the only other advice I can give you is to google the condition at home, and you’ll find out more. It’s such a rare diagnosis that, in all honesty, I don’t know much about it. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  With that, I was outside, clutching the piece of paper and walking back to my car. The word “chemotherapy” echoed around in my head. It was getting dark as I unlocked my car and drove back to the place I was staying. Walking in, I felt so alone and badly in need of someone to talk to. As always, there was no significant other or spouse there for me, and I’d kept local friends at a distance behind the emotional walls I’d built. I was facing this diagnosis alone. I sat in the corner of the room and sobbed.

  Later, I found the courage to turn on my laptop and type the name of the condition into Google. I stared at the results. Photos of people who’d been diagnosed with the same condition popped up, with plenty of worst-case scenarios. Several of their faces had been ravaged by the disease, the soft tissue of their foreheads eaten away. In some, the disease had spread downward below the eyebrow through the eye socket and left them blind. Some had lost the side of their mouth. In others, the scar had moved upward, through the hairline, leaving a two-inch hairless pathway up to the crown. I felt dizzy and short of breath as I realized how serious this all was, and I dissolved into sobs again.

  It was evening in California. Looking at my watch, I calculated it was three in the morning in London. I couldn’t disturb anyone at that hour. Crawling into bed, I lay there sleepless. As soon as the UK woke up, I called Wendy, then my sister, then my mum. Through tears I updated them about the diagnosis, the treatment plan, and how frightened I felt.

  They could tell that everything I’d been through so far, plus this new blow, had brought me to a final breaking point. It was clear I needed support. Everyone was unanimous: the smartest idea was for me to go home to the UK, have this treatment through the National Health Service (NHS), and be close enough for friends and family to offer me the help and care I needed.

  I finished my album, and the tracks were sent off to get mixed and mastered. I should have been celebrating the year of hard work that had gone into it, but instead I was packing boxes, fielding calls from my label and booking agent, and doing everything necessary to organize my move back to the UK to begin the chemo treatment. Money had been tight lately as the entire music industry was struggling; pirated digital downloads and cheap streaming services meant albums just weren’t selling like they used to. I gave most of my belongings to a thrift store and packed everything else into three huge suitcases.

  I loved my new album, as did my record label, Integrity Music, so it was tough to have to walk away from the press-release events and marketing dates we’d planned for its launch. The fact that I couldn’t tour in the coming year meant sales would be low and the songs I’d worked so hard on would barely be heard. The label staff were disappointed, but we knew my health had to come first. To stay in the US would mean vast health-care bills I couldn’t afford and going through treatment without any family or friends on hand. There was no way I could tour—I was far too frail.

  I landed at Heathrow, and London welcomed me back with its usual gray clouds and pouring rain. I wanted to be home, though; facing that illness in a foreign country sounded too hard to manage. I knew my body was signaling to me—waving a huge white flag—telling me I had to stop my workaholic lifestyle and address what was going on underneath. I knew the real reason I was running so fast through life—I was trying to escape the shame and heartbreak I felt about my orientation. I knew I must finally stop running.

  Part IV

  Returning Home

  20

  The British hospital was an endless maze of white hallways. Silence permeated every room and stairwell; it felt like a place where time stood still. After the incessant n
oise and pace of ten years on tour, this building was the polar opposite, and the abrupt stop was a shock to my system. Used to pushing myself relentlessly, with barely a moment to pause and think, suddenly here I was, lying totally still with nothing to stare at but a white ceiling, white walls, and white curtains.

  An IV was running into my veins, pumping steroids into my bloodstream to try and stop the disease, scleroderma, before it caused any more damage to my cells. After the drip had transferred all the drugs, I took my chemo tablets and then was wheeled down for an ultrasound scan. The doctors wanted to see how deep the damage ran beneath the surface of my forehead and also to test me for epilepsy, which they said was a common comorbid condition with scleroderma.

  Shuttling back and forth to appointments like this became the rhythm of my week. I’d leave my tiny studio apartment for yet more checkups, scans, and IVs, then return home, collapse into bed, and sleep. I was too sick to work, plus my career had been based in the States for almost a decade now, so I had few work opportunities in the UK. I’d looked highly successful to the large crowds I played in front of, but really things had been financially tight for years. Living on my meager savings, I was in survival mode.

  The number one priority was stopping the scarring from spreading, so all the appointments focused on getting drugs into me as fast as possible. One thing I hadn’t really figured out, though, was why I had gotten this aggressive illness in the first place. I was lucky enough to be under the care of one of the UK’s scleroderma specialists, and during one clinic visit I decided to ask him about the cause of the disease.

  “Well . . . there’s no proven genetic cause for morphea or scleroderma,” he said. “It’s pretty mysterious, as are many autoimmune diseases.” He explained that the body was “fighting against itself,” a phrase that the specialist in California had used too; it was destroying its own healthy cells.

  Pausing and looking at me more intently, he continued, “Often, I find autoimmune conditions like scleroderma have psychological and emotional triggers. People may be genetically predisposed to having one of these diseases, but it may stay dormant for their entire lives—unless they go through something hugely traumatic or stressful, and then it triggers.”

  I squirmed in my seat. This was definitely not the direction I’d imagined the conversation going. He continued, “Is there something in your life that you’d consider highly stressful or traumatic? Something that weighs heavily on you psychologically, that creates major anxiety?”

  One topic instantly, and obviously, sprang to mind. Seeing my awkward body language, he quickly added, “No need to tell me what it is—that’s your private business. But if there is something . . . please get help and find a solution. It may well have triggered this in your body as a warning sign, like dashboard lights flashing when a car is breaking down. Please don’t ignore anything that could be causing this.”

  I felt reflective and melancholy as I made my way out of the doctor’s clinic and into the parking lot. His message rang in my ears: If there is something causing you major strain and trauma, please get help and find a solution. It may well have triggered this in your body as a warning sign.

  There was only one thing that had caused vast emotional strain in my life for years. I’d known I was gay since I was twelve or thirteen. Keeping that hidden for two decades had been wrecking my heart and mind. Now, as I neared the age of thirty, it seemed to be wrecking my body too.

  All these years, I’d prayed and fasted, submitted myself to an exorcism, confessed to a Catholic priest, believed that conversion therapy could change a person’s orientation, read the Bible until my eyes were sore, and never acted on my attractions even once. I’d done anything and everything to try and become straight or to shut down any desires for a life partner. My immune system, my adrenals, and my sympathetic nervous system were all stretched to breaking point from years of living in fight-or-flight mode, constantly terrified someone would find out my closely guarded secret.

  Extreme stress, the doctor had told me, was worse than chain-smoking cigarettes all day, every day. I’d never touched a cigarette, and I was a teetotaler, but the impact of a lifetime of psychological trauma was proving how damaging stress could be. He’d also added that loneliness and isolation had similar physiological effects. It was a lot to process.

  Out in the parking lot, it was a gray, rainy afternoon, so I put my umbrella up. I touched the red, inflamed patch of scar tissue on my forehead and felt sick with worry about how this disease might damage me further. Needing chemo drugs was awful enough. I just hoped I wouldn’t also lose part of my face, like the patients I’d seen on Google.

  Standing in the rain, holding my umbrella, I felt tears run down my cheeks. Touching my forehead again, I made a decision: I had to face my gay orientation and decide what to do. I couldn’t sweep it under the carpet anymore. Finally, I’d found something even more frightening than losing the evangelical world I knew and loved—and that was this disease, which was spreading aggressively through my cells. As well as taking my medication, I knew I had to stop the underlying stress and trauma that had contributed to it.

  I needed to face the unsettling question: What did the Bible really say about same-sex relationships? I had to give myself the freedom to read, study, think, and pray. My mind wandered back to the pro-gay interpretations of scripture I’d read about years earlier at Oxford. I remembered standing in the library on that memorable day of the snowball fight, awkwardly hanging around the Sexual Ethics shelf. Many times since, I’d wondered if those authors were right, but breaking step with my evangelical Christian community was not something I’d been willing to contemplate, and I’d shelved the thought every time.

  Scleroderma had brought with it a sense of urgency. Life could not go on as it had before. I needed to dig into theology books again and try and unravel the answers to my questions. Could I finally make peace with this aspect of my identity? Could I be gay and Christian? These questions terrified me because I knew answering them would cost so much.

  The chemo and steroid treatments increased in regularity and dose. Between hospital visits, I was stuck at home, alone, with a headful of questions about facing up to my sexuality. I could think of nothing else. The drugs alone would have been plenty to deal with and created their own emotional fallout, but I was dealing with so much more.

  As I began to process this painful issue, all the sadness, loss, and pain about my sexuality seemed to hit me like a tidal wave. The disease had forced me to stop in my tracks, and now that I had, I was face-to-face with my damaged inner world. Everything I’d shelved since I was thirteen crashed down on me; every moment of feeling shamed and guilty about my orientation rushed back with startling clarity and potency. Fear of revisiting what the Bible actually said, and perhaps then having to leave my livelihood and face vilification from Christians around the world, felt debilitating. All I could do was cry.

  I had always been so strong and independent, but this had reduced me to nothing. I struggled to do basic tasks at home. I couldn’t face seeing anyone. If I wasn’t at the clinic, I was in bed, curled in a ball, sobbing. Worse still, I didn’t feel able to tell anyone exactly why, because I still feared telling anyone I was gay, even those closest to me. All they knew was that I was a wreck.

  The sobbing and fragility went on for weeks. After encouragement from Wendy and from my sister, Jo, I found a therapist. Christopher, my new therapist, helped me understand why I was such a lifeless, sobbing wreck. After two hours of asking in-depth questions and assessing my symptoms, he said, “Vicky, you’ve had a nervous breakdown. There’s no other way to describe it.” Looking me in the eye, he added, “It’s going to be okay, though. I can help you navigate this and get you back on your feet again.”

  In our sessions, I found the courage to tell Christopher about my orientation and my lifetime of pain around it. The fact that he was bound by professional confidentiality gave me the security I needed. It felt so strange to finally voice the w
ords “I am gay” out loud. After the Catholic confession and the exorcism years ago, I’d vowed I would never tell another soul. But now I finally had.

  We also discussed unhelpful teachings about mental health I’d been exposed to in the church. In charismatic, evangelical, and Pentecostal circles, many had taught that depression, anxiety, or a nervous breakdown was a sign that you were not living in the power of the Holy Spirit, but were somehow living in sin and in need of prayer ministry to expel the dark forces attacking your life. Anyone in a position of leadership in the church should not be consistently dealing with those things, they’d said.

  For many Pentecostals, prayer was held up as the primary way to be “healed,” and taking medication showed a lack of faith. This led to a lot of fear, and a sense of taboo, around mental health in many churches. It sounded bizarre explaining it to Christopher, as he had grown up nonreligious, but these ideas were considered normal in many of the congregations I had visited and sung at.

  We also talked about anger, because I was angry. I was confused about what I believed or didn’t believe about same-sex relationships and why I’d had to live such a sad and isolated existence. I was angry that my life had crashed and burned and left me in a hospital with IVs in my arm. Angry that I’d had a teenage exorcism. Angry that I’d had to sing in churches where pastors preached that homosexuality was, “in God’s eyes, on a par with pedophilia.” Angry that I’d finally been reduced to a nervous breakdown.

  The straight male worship leaders and Christian recording artists in the evangelical sector hadn’t faced this cruel choice: having a spouse, or a music ministry, but not both. Most of them were married to loving wives and raising beautiful children. They had families to go home to and a job that they loved in the church. Whatever my theology would or wouldn’t turn out to be in future, I had a lot of unprocessed anger and grief about how unfair and destructive it all seemed.