I Thought I Was a Homosexual Woman - David Bowie Made Me Discover the Actual Situation

Back in 2011, several years ahead of the acclaimed David Bowie exhibition launched at the famous Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK capital, I declared myself a homosexual woman. Up to that point, I had solely pursued relationships with men, including one I had wed. By 2013, I found myself in my early 40s, a freshly divorced parent to four children, living in the America.

At that time, I had begun to doubt both my personal gender and romantic inclinations, looking to find answers.

My birthplace was England during the early 1970s - pre-world wide web. As teenagers, my peers and I were without online forums or video sharing sites to consult when we had curiosities about intimacy; conversely, we looked to pop stars, and in that decade, everyone was playing with gender norms.

The Eurythmics singer donned male clothing, Boy George embraced women's fashion, and pop groups such as Erasure and Bronski Beat featured members who were openly gay.

I craved his lean physique and sharp haircut, his strong features and flat chest. I sought to become the Bowie's Berlin period

During the nineties, I spent my time riding a motorbike and dressing like a tomboy, but I went back to conventional female presentation when I decided to wed. My husband relocated us to the United States in 2007, but when the marriage ended I felt an irresistible pull revisiting the manhood I had previously abandoned.

Since nobody experimented with identity to the extent of David Bowie, I chose to spend a free afternoon during a warm-weather journey returning to England at the V&A, anticipating that maybe he could help me figure it out.

I lacked clarity precisely what I was seeking when I walked into the show - possibly I anticipated that by immersing myself in the opulence of Bowie's gender experimentation, I might, in turn, encounter a hint about my true nature.

Quickly I discovered myself positioned before a modest display where the film clip for "that track" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was moving with assurance in the foreground, looking polished in a slate-colored ensemble, while positioned laterally three backing singers wearing women's clothing crowded round a microphone.

Differing from the drag queens I had encountered in real life, these ladies failed to move around the stage with the self-assurance of inherent stars; instead they looked unenthused and frustrated. Relegated to the background, they were chewing and rolled their eyes at the monotony of it all.

"The song's lyrics, boys always work it out," Bowie voiced happily, seemingly unaware to their lack of enthusiasm. I felt a fleeting feeling of empathy for the supporting artists, with their heavy makeup, uncomfortable wigs and restrictive outfits.

They appeared to feel as ill-at-ease as I did in women's clothes - annoyed and restless, as if they were yearning for it all to conclude. Precisely when I recognized my alignment with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them ripped off her wig, wiped the makeup from her face, and revealed herself to be ... Bowie! Revelation. (Understandably, there were two other David Bowies as well.)

Right then, I was absolutely sure that I wanted to shed all constraints and emulate the artist. I craved his slender frame and his precise cut, his strong features and his male chest; I wanted to embody the lean-figured, Berlin-era Bowie. And yet I found myself incapable, because to truly become Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Coming out as gay was a separate matter, but personal transformation was a significantly scarier prospect.

It took me additional years before I was prepared. During that period, I made every effort to embrace manhood: I ceased using cosmetics and eliminated all my skirts and dresses, shortened my locks and commenced using male attire.

I changed my seating posture, walked differently, and changed my name and pronouns, but I stopped short of hormonal treatment - the possibility of rejection and regret had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

Once the David Bowie show concluded its international run with a stint in the American metropolis, five years later, I returned. I had reached a breaking point. I was unable to continue acting to be something I was not.

Facing the familiar clip in 2018, I became completely convinced that the issue didn't involve my attire, it was my biological self. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a male with feminine qualities who'd been presenting artificially throughout his existence. I wanted to transform myself into the person in the polished attire, performing under lights, and then I comprehended that I had the capacity to.

I booked myself in to see a medical professional soon after. It took additional years before my transition was complete, but none of the fears I anticipated materialized.

I continue to possess many of my traditional womanly traits, so people often mistake me for a homosexual male, but I accept this. I sought the ability to play with gender following Bowie's example - and now that I'm content with my physical form, I can.