I Was Convinced I Was a Gay Woman - David Bowie Enabled Me to Realize the Actual Situation

In 2011, several years ahead of the renowned David Bowie show opened at the prestigious Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK capital, I came out as a lesbian. Up to that point, I had exclusively dated men, with one partner I had entered matrimony with. By 2013, I found myself in my early 40s, a freshly divorced mother of four, making my home in the US.

Throughout this phase, I had commenced examining both my personal gender and sexual orientation, looking to find understanding.

My birthplace was England during the early 1970s - before the internet. When we were young, my companions and myself lacked access to online forums or YouTube to turn to when we had questions about sex; conversely, we looked to pop stars, and in that decade, artists were experimenting with gender norms.

Annie Lennox donned male clothing, The flamboyant singer embraced girls' clothes, and bands such as well-known groups featured members who were proudly homosexual.

I desired his narrow hips and defined hairstyle, his defined jawline and male chest. I sought to become the artist's German phase

During the nineties, I spent my time riding a motorbike and wearing androgynous clothing, but I returned to traditional womanhood when I chose to get married. My partner transferred our home to the United States in 2007, but when the union collapsed I felt an undeniable attraction returning to the manhood I had once given up.

Considering that no artist played with gender quite like David Bowie, I decided to use some leisure time during a warm-weather journey returning to England at the V&A, hoping that perhaps he could provide clarity.

I lacked clarity specifically what I was searching for when I stepped inside the display - possibly I anticipated that by submerging my consciousness in the extravagance of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, consequently, stumble across a hint about my true nature.

Quickly I discovered myself facing a small television screen where the film clip for "the iconic song" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was strutting his stuff in the foreground, looking sharp in a dark grey suit, while to the side three supporting vocalists wearing women's clothing clustered near a microphone.

Differing from the entertainers I had encountered in real life, these ladies didn't glide around the stage with the poise of born divas; instead they looked bored and annoyed. Placed in secondary positions, they were chewing and expressed annoyance at the monotony of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie sang cheerfully, seemingly unaware to their reduced excitement. I felt a fleeting feeling of understanding for the supporting artists, with their heavy makeup, ill-fitting wigs and restrictive outfits.

They gave the impression of as uncomfortable as I did in female clothing - frustrated and eager, as if they were yearning for it all to be over. Just as I realized I was identifying with three men dressed in drag, one of them removed her wig, removed the cosmetics from her face, and revealed herself to be ... Bowie! Surprise. (Naturally, there were two other David Bowies as well.)

Right then, I became completely convinced that I aimed to rip it all off and emulate the artist. I wanted his narrow hips and his defined hairstyle, his angular jaw and his flat chest; I wanted to embody the slim-silhouetted, Berlin-era Bowie. However I was unable to, because to authentically transform into Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Announcing my identity as homosexual was one thing, but personal transformation was a considerably more daunting outlook.

I required further time before I was prepared. Meanwhile, I did my best to embrace manhood: I stopped wearing makeup and threw away all my feminine garments, shortened my locks and started wearing male attire.

I changed my seating posture, modified my gait, and modified my personal references, but I stopped short of hormonal treatment - the possibility of rejection and second thoughts had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

When the David Bowie display completed its global journey with a presentation in New York City, after half a decade, I returned. I had arrived at a crisis. I was unable to continue acting to be a person I wasn't.

Positioned before the familiar clip in 2018, I became completely convinced that the challenge wasn't my clothes, it was my biological self. I wasn't a masculine woman; I was a feminine man who'd been in costume all his life. I aimed to transition into the person in the polished attire, performing under lights, and then I comprehended that I could.

I made arrangements to see a doctor not long after. The process required another few years before my transformation concluded, but not a single concern I worried about materialized.

I still have many of my feminine mannerisms, so others regularly misinterpret me for a gay man, but I accept this. I desired the liberty to explore expression following Bowie's example - and now that I'm comfortable in my body, I am able to.