I Was Convinced Myself to Be a Homosexual Woman - The Legendary Artist Enabled Me to Discover the Reality

Back in 2011, a couple of years before the renowned David Bowie exhibition opened at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I came out as a gay woman. Until that moment, I had solely pursued relationships with men, including one I had wed. After a couple of years, I found myself nearing forty-five, a newly single mother of four, making my home in the US.

At that time, I had begun to doubt both my gender identity and attraction preferences, seeking out understanding.

My birthplace was England during the early 1970s - pre-world wide web. During our youth, my friends and I lacked access to online forums or digital content to reference when we had questions about sex; rather, we looked to music icons, and in that decade, musicians were playing with gender norms.

Annie Lennox wore boys' clothes, Boy George embraced women's fashion, and bands such as Erasure and Bronski Beat featured artists who were openly gay.

I craved his lean physique and precise cut, his defined jawline and masculine torso. I sought to become the Bowie's Berlin period

During the nineties, I passed my days operating a motorcycle and adopting masculine styles, but I went back to conventional female presentation when I chose to get married. My partner moved our family to the America in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an irresistible pull returning to the manhood I had earlier relinquished.

Given that no one played with gender quite like David Bowie, I opted to devote an open day during a summer trip back to the UK at the museum, with the expectation that perhaps he could help me figure it out.

I lacked clarity precisely what I was looking for when I entered the show - maybe I thought that by immersing myself in the richness of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, in turn, encounter a clue to my personal self.

I soon found myself standing in front of a compact monitor where the music video for "that track" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was strutting his stuff in the front, looking stylish in a charcoal outfit, while to the side three supporting vocalists dressed in drag clustered near a microphone.

In contrast to the drag queens I had encountered in real life, these ladies didn't glide around the stage with the confidence of inherent stars; conversely they looked disinterested and irritated. Relegated to the background, they had gum in their mouths and rolled their eyes at the boredom of it all.

"Boys keep swinging, boys always work it out," Bowie voiced happily, apparently oblivious to their reduced excitement. I felt a brief sensation of understanding for the supporting artists, with their pronounced make-up, uncomfortable wigs and restrictive outfits.

They appeared to feel as uncomfortable as I did in women's clothes - irritated and impatient, as if they were longing for it all to end. Just as I understood I connected with three individuals presenting as female, one of them ripped off her wig, wiped the makeup from her face, and revealed herself to be ... Bowie! Surprise. (Naturally, there were further David Bowies as well.)

Right then, I was absolutely sure that I desired to shed all constraints and emulate the artist. I wanted his narrow hips and his sharp haircut, his defined jawline and his masculine torso; I aimed to personify the lean-figured, Bowie's German period. Nevertheless I was unable to, because to truly become Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Announcing my identity as queer was a different challenge, but personal transformation was a considerably more daunting outlook.

I needed further time before I was prepared. In the meantime, I made every effort to adopt male characteristics: I stopped wearing makeup and threw away all my women's clothing, shortened my locks and started wearing masculine outfits.

I altered how I sat, walked differently, and modified my personal references, but I stopped short of surgical procedures - the potential for denial and remorse had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

Once the David Bowie exhibition completed its global journey with a presentation in New York City, following that period, I returned. I had arrived at a crisis. I found it impossible to maintain the facade to be an identity that didn't fit.

Facing the same video in 2018, I knew for certain that the problem wasn't about my clothing, it was my body. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a feminine man who'd been presenting artificially throughout his existence. I wanted to transform myself into the person in the polished attire, moving in the illumination, and then I comprehended that I could.

I booked myself in to see a medical professional soon after. The process required further time before my transformation concluded, but none of the things I worried about occurred.

I still have many of my traditional womanly traits, so individuals frequently misidentify me for a queer man, but I accept this. I wanted the freedom to explore expression as Bowie had - and now that I'm content with my physical form, I have that capacity.