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

Back in 2011, a few years before the celebrated David Bowie display debuted at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK capital, I declared myself a gay woman. Until that moment, I had only been with men, one of whom I had entered matrimony with. By 2013, I found myself approaching middle age, a recently separated caregiver to four kids, residing in the America.

Throughout this phase, I had started questioning both my sense of self and sexual orientation, looking to find answers.

I entered the world in England during the dawn of the seventies era - before the internet. As teenagers, my peers and I didn't have social platforms or digital content to reference when we had curiosities about intimacy; conversely, we sought guidance from pop stars, and throughout the eighties, artists were experimenting with gender norms.

Annie Lennox wore male clothing, The flamboyant singer embraced women's fashion, and bands such as popular ensembles featured members who were proudly homosexual.

I craved his narrow hips and sharp haircut, his angular jaw and male chest. I aimed to personify the Berlin-era Bowie

In that decade, I spent my time riding a motorbike and adopting masculine styles, but I returned to traditional womanhood when I decided to wed. My partner relocated us to the United States in 2007, but when the marriage ended I felt an undeniable attraction back towards the male identity I had earlier relinquished.

Considering that no artist experimented with identity quite like David Bowie, I chose to spend a free afternoon during a seasonal visit visiting Britain at the museum, hoping that perhaps he could provide clarity.

I lacked clarity exactly what I was searching for when I stepped inside the exhibition - maybe I thought that by losing myself in the opulence of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, consequently, discover a insight into my true nature.

Before long I was positioned before a compact monitor where the film clip for "that track" was playing on repeat. Bowie was moving with assurance in the front, looking sharp in a dark grey suit, while positioned laterally three backing singers dressed in drag gathered around a microphone.

In contrast to the drag queens I had encountered in real life, these ladies failed to move around the stage with the confidence of inherent stars; conversely they looked unenthused and frustrated. Placed in secondary positions, they were chewing and expressed annoyance at the tedium of it all.

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

They seemed to experience as uncomfortable as I did in female clothing - irritated and impatient, as if they were yearning for it all to end. Precisely when I understood I connected with three men dressed in drag, one of them tore off her wig, removed the cosmetics from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Revelation. (Naturally, there were additional David Bowies as well.)

At that moment, I became completely convinced that I desired to rip it all off and become Bowie too. I craved his slender frame and his sharp haircut, his defined jawline and his flat chest; I aimed to personify the slim-silhouetted, artist's Berlin phase. And yet I found myself incapable, because to truly become Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

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

I needed additional years before I was willing. During that period, I made every effort to embrace manhood: I ceased using cosmetics and eliminated all my women's clothing, cut off my hair and began donning masculine outfits.

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

Once the David Bowie exhibition finished its world tour with a stint in Brooklyn, New York, five years later, I went back. I had arrived at a crisis. I found it impossible to maintain the facade to be a person I wasn't.

Facing the familiar clip in 2018, I was absolutely sure that the challenge wasn't my clothes, it was my body. I wasn't a masculine woman; I was a man with gentle characteristics who'd been presenting artificially throughout his existence. I aimed to transition into the man in the sharp suit, performing under lights, and then I comprehended that I could.

I booked myself in to see a doctor shortly afterwards. It took additional years before my transition was complete, but none of the fears I feared came true.

I still have many of my traditional womanly traits, so people often mistake me for a queer man, but I'm OK with that. I desired the liberty to explore expression as Bowie had - and now that I'm content with my physical form, I have that capacity.