I Was Convinced Myself to Be a Homosexual Woman - David Bowie Made Me Discover the Actual Situation

Back in 2011, a few years before the acclaimed David Bowie exhibition debuted at the famous Victoria and Albert Museum in England, I publicly announced a lesbian. Up to that point, I had only been with men, one of whom I had entered matrimony with. After a couple of years, I found myself nearing forty-five, a newly single caregiver to four kids, making my home in the America.

At that time, I had commenced examining both my sense of self and attraction preferences, looking to find clarity.

I entered the world in England during the beginning of the seventies - before the internet. When we were young, my peers and I didn't have Reddit or YouTube to reference when we had curiosities about intimacy; rather, we looked to celebrity musicians, and during the 80s, musicians were challenging gender norms.

The iconic vocalist sported masculine attire, The flamboyant singer wore girls' clothes, and pop groups such as Erasure and Bronski Beat featured artists who were publicly out.

I wanted his narrow hips and defined hairstyle, his defined jawline and flat chest. I wanted to embody the Berlin-era Bowie

During the nineties, I spent my time driving a bike and dressing like a tomboy, but I reverted back to femininity when I decided to wed. My partner moved our family to the United States in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an powerful draw back towards the manhood I had earlier relinquished.

Given that no one experimented with identity to the extent of David Bowie, I decided to spend a free afternoon during a seasonal visit visiting Britain at the V&A, anticipating that possibly he could help me figure it out.

I was uncertain exactly what I was searching for when I stepped inside the display - perhaps I hoped that by immersing myself in the opulence of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, consequently, stumble across a hint about my true nature.

I soon found myself positioned before a compact monitor where the visual presentation for "Boys Keep Swinging" was playing on repeat. Bowie was performing confidently in the front, looking polished in a charcoal outfit, while off to one side three accompanying performers in feminine attire crowded round a microphone.

Differing from the entertainers I had seen personally, these ladies failed to move around the stage with the poise of natural performers; rather they looked disinterested and irritated. Positioned as supporting acts, they chewed gum and expressed annoyance at the boredom of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, appearing ignorant to their reduced excitement. I felt a brief sensation of understanding for the supporting artists, with their heavy makeup, awkward hairpieces and too-tight dresses.

They appeared to feel as uncomfortable as I did in female clothing - frustrated and eager, as if they were yearning for it all to be over. Precisely when I realized I was identifying with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them removed her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and unveiled herself as ... Bowie! Revelation. (Understandably, there were further David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I became completely convinced that I aimed to rip it all off and transform like Bowie. I wanted his narrow hips and his precise cut, his strong features and his masculine torso; I sought to become the lean-figured, Bowie's German period. Nevertheless I found myself incapable, because to genuinely embody Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Declaring myself as homosexual was a separate matter, but gender transition was a much more frightening outlook.

It took me several more years before I was willing. In the meantime, I made every effort to become more masculine: I ceased using cosmetics and threw away all my skirts and dresses, shortened my locks and commenced using masculine outfits.

I altered how I sat, walked differently, and changed my name and pronouns, but I stopped short of hormonal treatment - the potential for denial and second thoughts had left me paralysed with fear.

Once the David Bowie show concluded its international run with a engagement in New York City, five years later, I revisited. I had reached a breaking point. I was unable to continue acting to be something I was not.

Facing the identical footage in 2018, I knew for certain that the issue wasn't my clothes, it was my biological self. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a feminine man who'd been in costume since birth. I aimed to transition into the person in the polished attire, moving in the illumination, and then I comprehended that I could.

I scheduled an appointment to see a doctor shortly afterwards. I needed additional years before my transformation concluded, but not a single concern I worried about came true.

I continue to possess many of my traditional womanly traits, so others regularly misinterpret me for a queer man, but I'm comfortable with that outcome. I desired the liberty to explore expression following Bowie's example - and since I'm content with my physical form, I have that capacity.