I Believed Myself to Be a Homosexual Woman - David Bowie Enabled Me to Realize the Reality

During 2011, a few years prior to the acclaimed David Bowie exhibition debuted 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, including one I had entered matrimony with. By 2013, I found myself in my early 40s, a newly single parent to four children, living in the US.

At that time, I had started questioning both my sense of self and romantic inclinations, seeking out answers.

My birthplace was England during the beginning of the seventies - pre-world wide web. As teenagers, my companions and myself were without online forums or digital content to consult when we had curiosities about intimacy; conversely, we sought guidance from celebrity musicians, and in that decade, artists were playing with gender norms.

The Eurythmics singer sported male clothing, The flamboyant singer embraced women's fashion, and pop groups such as popular ensembles featured artists who were publicly out.

I craved his lean physique and precise cut, his angular jaw and male chest. I aimed to personify the Berlin-era Bowie

During the nineties, I lived operating a motorcycle and dressing like a tomboy, but I reverted back to femininity when I opted for marriage. My spouse transferred our home to the America in 2007, but when the marriage ended I felt an irresistible pull back towards the male identity I had earlier relinquished.

Given that no one played with gender quite like David Bowie, I chose to spend a free afternoon during a summer trip returning to England at the museum, anticipating that perhaps he could guide my understanding.

I didn't know specifically what I was searching for when I entered the exhibition - maybe I thought that by immersing myself in the extravagance of Bowie's gender experimentation, I might, as a result, stumble across a clue to my true nature.

Quickly I discovered myself positioned before a compact monitor where the film clip for "that track" was continuously looping. Bowie was strutting his stuff in the front, looking stylish in a charcoal outfit, while positioned laterally three accompanying performers wearing women's clothing clustered near a microphone.

Differing from the entertainers I had witnessed firsthand, these ladies weren't sashaying around the stage with the poise of inherent stars; rather they looked unenthused and frustrated. Relegated to the background, they chewed gum and showed impatience at the monotony of it all.

"Boys keep swinging, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, seemingly unaware to their reduced excitement. I felt a brief sensation of understanding for the backing singers, with their thick cosmetics, ill-fitting wigs and constricting garments.

They gave the impression of as uncomfortable as I did in women's clothes - irritated and impatient, as if they were longing for it all to end. Precisely when I recognized my alignment with three individuals presenting as female, one of them removed her wig, removed the cosmetics from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Revelation. (Understandably, there were further David Bowies as well.)

At that moment, I knew for certain that I desired to shed all constraints and transform like Bowie. I craved his narrow hips and his sharp haircut, his defined jawline and his masculine torso; I wanted to embody the slim-silhouetted, artist's Berlin phase. And yet I was unable to, because to authentically transform into Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Coming out as queer was one thing, but personal transformation was a considerably more daunting possibility.

It took me further time before I was willing. During that period, I tried my hardest to embrace manhood: I ceased using cosmetics and eliminated all my women's clothing, cut off my hair and commenced using men's clothes.

I changed my seating posture, changed my stride, and modified my personal references, but I halted before hormonal treatment - the chance of refusal and remorse had caused me to freeze with apprehension.

Once the David Bowie display completed its global journey with a presentation in New York City, after half a decade, I went back. I had arrived at a crisis. I found it impossible to maintain the facade to be something I was not.

Standing in front of the familiar clip in 2018, I knew for certain that the problem wasn't about my clothing, it was my physical form. I wasn't a masculine woman; I was a feminine man who'd been in costume since birth. I desired to change into the man in the sharp suit, moving in the illumination, and now I realized that I could.

I scheduled an appointment to see a medical professional not long after. The process required additional years before my personal journey finished, but none of the fears I feared occurred.

I maintain many of my female characteristics, so others regularly misinterpret me for a gay man, but I'm OK with that. I desired the liberty to explore expression as Bowie had - and since I'm comfortable in my body, I can.