I Believed Myself to Be a Gay Woman - David Bowie Helped Me Uncover the Reality

Back in 2011, a few years before the celebrated David Bowie exhibition opened at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK capital, I came out as a lesbian. Up to that point, I had only been with men, one of whom I had entered matrimony with. After a couple of years, I found myself approaching middle age, a freshly divorced caregiver to four kids, living in the America.

Throughout this phase, I had begun to doubt both my sense of self and attraction preferences, searching for answers.

My birthplace was England during the early 1970s - pre-world wide web. As teenagers, my peers and I were without Reddit or YouTube to reference when we had curiosities about intimacy; instead, we turned toward celebrity musicians, and in that decade, everyone was experimenting with gender norms.

The iconic vocalist donned masculine attire, The flamboyant singer wore women's fashion, and bands such as popular ensembles featured members who were publicly out.

I desired his slender frame and precise cut, his strong features and flat chest. I sought to become the Berlin-era Bowie

Throughout the 90s, I passed my days driving a bike and wearing androgynous clothing, but I returned to femininity when I decided to wed. My husband transferred our home to the America in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an irresistible pull back towards the manhood I had earlier relinquished.

Since nobody played with gender as dramatically as David Bowie, I chose to spend a free afternoon during a warm-weather journey back to the UK at the museum, with the expectation that possibly he could provide clarity.

I didn't know exactly what I was looking for when I walked into the exhibition - perhaps I hoped that by immersing myself in the extravagance of Bowie's identity exploration, I might, consequently, stumble across a clue to my own identity.

Quickly I discovered myself facing a small television screen where the music video for "that track" was playing on repeat. Bowie was moving with assurance in the primary position, looking polished in a charcoal outfit, while off to one side three accompanying performers dressed in drag crowded round a microphone.

Differing from the performers I had encountered in real life, these female-presenting individuals didn't glide around the stage with the poise of inherent stars; rather they looked unenthused and frustrated. Relegated to the background, they were chewing and expressed annoyance at the boredom of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, apparently oblivious to their reduced excitement. I felt a fleeting feeling of understanding for the supporting artists, with their pronounced make-up, ill-fitting wigs and restrictive outfits.

They seemed to experience as uncomfortable as I did in female clothing - frustrated and eager, as if they were hoping for it all to conclude. Just as I understood I connected with three individuals presenting as female, one of them ripped off her wig, removed the cosmetics from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Surprise. (Of course, there were further David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I became completely convinced that I wanted to rip it all off and emulate the artist. I desired his lean physique and his sharp haircut, his defined jawline and his male chest; I aimed to personify the lean-figured, Bowie's German period. And yet I was unable to, because to genuinely embody Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Announcing my identity as homosexual was a separate matter, but personal transformation was a significantly scarier possibility.

I required further time before I was willing. Meanwhile, I made every effort to adopt male characteristics: I abandoned beauty products and discarded all my feminine garments, trimmed my tresses and commenced using men's clothes.

I altered how I sat, walked differently, and changed my name and pronouns, but I paused at medical intervention - the possibility of rejection and second thoughts had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

Once the David Bowie show finished its world tour with a engagement in Brooklyn, New York, following that period, I went back. I had reached a breaking point. I couldn't go on pretending to be a person I wasn't.

Facing the same video in 2018, I was absolutely sure that the problem wasn't about my clothing, it was my physical form. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a feminine man who'd been in costume all his life. I aimed to transition into the man in the sharp suit, performing under lights, and then I comprehended that I could.

I scheduled an appointment to see a physician soon after. The process required another few years before my personal journey finished, but not a single concern I worried about came true.

I still have many of my traditional womanly traits, so people often mistake me for a queer man, but I accept this. I desired the liberty to experiment with identity following Bowie's example - and now that I'm content with my physical form, I have that capacity.