I Was Convinced I Was a Gay Woman - The Legendary Artist Made Me Realize the Actual Situation

Back in 2011, a few years before the acclaimed David Bowie exhibition debuted at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I declared myself a lesbian. Up to that point, I had exclusively dated men, including one I had wed. Two years later, I found myself approaching middle age, a freshly divorced mother of four, residing in the US.

During this period, I had commenced examining both my gender identity and attraction preferences, searching for understanding.

I entered the world in England during the dawn of the seventies era - pre-world wide web. During our youth, my companions and myself lacked access to online forums or digital content to turn to when we had questions about sex; conversely, we sought guidance from celebrity musicians, and during the 80s, artists were experimenting with gender norms.

The iconic vocalist wore boys' clothes, The Culture Club frontman wore girls' clothes, and pop groups such as popular ensembles featured performers who were publicly out.

I desired his narrow hips and sharp haircut, his angular jaw and masculine torso. I sought to become the artist's German phase

In that decade, I spent my time driving a bike and dressing like a tomboy, but I returned to conventional female presentation when I opted for marriage. My spouse transferred our home to the US in 2007, but when the marriage ended I felt an irresistible pull returning to the manhood I had previously abandoned.

Since nobody experimented with identity to the extent of David Bowie, I opted to use some leisure time during a warm-weather journey visiting Britain at the museum, anticipating that possibly he could provide clarity.

I lacked clarity specifically what I was seeking when I walked into the show - possibly I anticipated that by losing myself in the opulence of Bowie's identity exploration, I might, consequently, discover a insight into my personal self.

Before long I was standing in front of a small television screen where the visual presentation for "Boys Keep Swinging" was playing on repeat. Bowie was moving with assurance in the primary position, looking polished in a slate-colored ensemble, while positioned laterally three supporting vocalists in feminine attire gathered around a microphone.

In contrast to the performers I had seen personally, these ladies failed to move around the stage with the poise of born divas; rather they looked disinterested and irritated. 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 sang cheerfully, apparently oblivious to their diminished energy. I felt a fleeting feeling of empathy for the accompanying performers, with their thick cosmetics, ill-fitting wigs and restrictive outfits.

They appeared to feel as ill-at-ease as I did in women's clothes - irritated and impatient, as if they were longing for it all to end. At the moment when I realized I was identifying with three individuals presenting as female, one of them ripped off her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and revealed herself to be ... Bowie! Surprise. (Of course, there were additional David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I became completely convinced that I desired to rip it all off and become Bowie too. I wanted his slender frame and his precise cut, his defined jawline and his flat chest; I wanted to embody the slim-silhouetted, Bowie's German period. However I couldn't, because to truly become Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Declaring myself as queer was a different challenge, but transitioning was a considerably more daunting outlook.

I needed several more years before I was ready. Meanwhile, I made every effort to become more masculine: I ceased using cosmetics and eliminated all my women's clothing, cut off my hair and began donning men's clothes.

I sat differently, walked differently, and adopted new identifiers, but I paused at hormonal treatment - the potential for denial and remorse had left me paralysed with fear.

When the David Bowie exhibition concluded its international run with a presentation in New York City, after half a decade, I went back. I had experienced a turning point. I found it impossible to maintain the facade to be a person I wasn't.

Positioned before the identical footage in 2018, I became completely convinced that the issue wasn't my clothes, it was my physical form. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a male with feminine qualities who'd been wearing drag since birth. I aimed to transition 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 doctor shortly afterwards. It took another few years before my personal journey finished, but not a single concern I worried about occurred.

I maintain many of my female characteristics, so individuals frequently misidentify me for a homosexual male, but I accept this. I desired the liberty to play with gender like Bowie did - and given that I'm at peace with myself, I can.