I Thought I Was a Homosexual Woman - The Legendary Artist Made Me Discover the Truth

In 2011, a few years ahead of the renowned David Bowie show debuted at the prestigious Victoria and Albert Museum in England, I came out as a gay woman. Until that moment, I had exclusively dated men, one of whom I had entered matrimony with. After a couple of years, I found myself approaching middle age, a newly single caregiver to four kids, living in the America.

At that time, I had commenced examining both my personal gender and romantic inclinations, looking to find clarity.

Born in England during the beginning of the seventies - pre-world wide web. During our youth, my companions and myself lacked access to online forums or digital content to consult when we had curiosities about intimacy; instead, we looked to celebrity musicians, and during the 80s, artists were challenging gender norms.

The iconic vocalist donned masculine attire, The flamboyant singer embraced girls' clothes, and musical acts such as well-known groups featured artists who were publicly out.

I desired his lean physique and sharp haircut, his defined jawline and masculine torso. I wanted to embody the Berlin-era Bowie

In that decade, I spent my time riding a motorbike and wearing androgynous clothing, but I reverted back to femininity when I decided to wed. My partner relocated us to the US in 2007, but when the marriage ended I felt an undeniable attraction revisiting the masculinity I had previously abandoned.

Given that no one challenged norms as dramatically as David Bowie, I decided to spend a free afternoon during a seasonal visit visiting Britain at the V&A, hoping that perhaps he could provide clarity.

I didn't know specifically what I was seeking when I walked into the show - perhaps I hoped that by submerging my consciousness in the extravagance of Bowie's gender experimentation, I might, consequently, discover a hint about my own identity.

Before long I was positioned before a modest display where the visual presentation for "that track" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was performing confidently in the front, looking sharp in a slate-colored ensemble, while positioned laterally three backing singers in feminine attire crowded round a microphone.

In contrast to the performers I had encountered in real life, these ladies failed to move around the stage with the confidence of born divas; conversely they looked bored and annoyed. Relegated to the background, they chewed gum and rolled their eyes at the tedium of it all.

"Boys keep swinging, boys always work it out," Bowie voiced happily, appearing ignorant to their diminished energy. I felt a brief sensation of connection for the accompanying performers, with their pronounced make-up, ill-fitting wigs and restrictive outfits.

They gave the impression of as ill-at-ease as I did in female clothing - irritated and impatient, 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 removed her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Surprise. (Naturally, there were two other David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I was absolutely sure that I wanted to remove everything and become Bowie too. I desired his narrow hips and his precise cut, his defined jawline and his flat chest; I wanted to embody the slender-shaped, artist's Berlin phase. And yet I couldn't, because to authentically transform into Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Announcing my identity as homosexual was a different challenge, but transitioning was a significantly scarier outlook.

It took me several more years before I was ready. Meanwhile, I tried my hardest to adopt male characteristics: I abandoned beauty products and discarded all my skirts and dresses, cut off my hair and began donning masculine outfits.

I sat differently, modified my gait, and changed my name and pronouns, but I paused at hormonal treatment - the possibility of rejection and regret had caused me to freeze with apprehension.

Once the David Bowie show finished its world tour with a stint in New York City, after half a decade, I went back. I had arrived at a crisis. 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 biological self. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a feminine man who'd been wearing drag throughout his existence. I wanted to transform myself into the person in the polished attire, performing under lights, and now I realized that I could.

I scheduled an appointment to see a doctor shortly afterwards. The process required further time before my personal journey finished, but none of the fears I anticipated came true.

I maintain many of my feminine mannerisms, so individuals frequently misidentify me for a gay man, but I accept this. I desired the liberty to experiment with identity following Bowie's example - and given that I'm content with my physical form, I have that capacity.