I Was Convinced That I Identified As a Homosexual Woman - David Bowie Helped Me Discover the Truth

Back in 2011, a few years ahead of the renowned David Bowie display debuted at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in England, I declared myself a homosexual woman. Up to that point, I had only been with men, one of whom I had wed. Two years later, I found myself approaching middle age, a recently separated mother of four, living in the US.

During this period, I had started questioning both my gender identity and attraction preferences, looking to find understanding.

I entered the world in England during the early 1970s - prior to digital connectivity. During our youth, my peers and I lacked access to Reddit or YouTube to reference when we had inquiries regarding sexuality; instead, we looked to pop stars, and in that decade, artists were playing with gender norms.

Annie Lennox sported boys' clothes, The flamboyant singer adopted feminine outfits, and pop groups such as well-known groups featured artists who were publicly out.

I desired his narrow hips and defined hairstyle, his strong features and flat chest. I aimed to personify the artist's German phase

During the nineties, I spent my time riding a motorbike and dressing like a tomboy, but I returned to conventional female presentation when I chose to get married. My husband moved our family to the America in 2007, but when the union collapsed I felt an undeniable attraction returning to the male identity I had previously abandoned.

Given that no one played with gender to the extent of David Bowie, I decided to use some leisure time during a seasonal visit back to the UK at the gallery, anticipating that perhaps he could guide my understanding.

I didn't know exactly what I was looking for when I entered the exhibition - maybe I thought that by immersing myself in the opulence of Bowie's identity exploration, I might, consequently, discover a clue to my personal self.

Quickly I discovered myself facing a compact monitor where the visual presentation for "the iconic song" was continuously looping. Bowie was moving with assurance in the foreground, looking sharp in a charcoal outfit, while to the side three backing singers dressed in drag crowded round a microphone.

Differing from the entertainers I had encountered in real life, these female-presenting individuals didn't glide around the stage with the self-assurance 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.

"The song's lyrics, boys always work it out," Bowie sang cheerfully, appearing ignorant to their lack of enthusiasm. I felt a brief sensation of empathy for the supporting artists, with their thick cosmetics, ill-fitting wigs and constricting garments.

They seemed to experience as ill-at-ease as I did in feminine attire - irritated and impatient, as if they were hoping for it all to conclude. At the moment when I realized I was identifying with three individuals presenting as female, one of them tore off her wig, wiped the makeup from her face, and unveiled herself as ... Bowie! Revelation. (Naturally, there were further David Bowies as well.)

Right then, I became completely convinced that I aimed to remove everything and emulate the artist. I craved his narrow hips and his defined hairstyle, his strong features and his masculine torso; 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 require being a man.

Announcing my identity as homosexual was one thing, but gender transition was a much more frightening prospect.

I needed several more years before I was prepared. Meanwhile, I tried my hardest to embrace manhood: I abandoned beauty products and threw away all my skirts and dresses, shortened my locks and began donning masculine outfits.

I sat differently, walked differently, and adopted new identifiers, but I paused at medical intervention - the chance of refusal and second thoughts had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

When the David Bowie show concluded its international run with a stint in New York City, five years later, I went back. I had reached a breaking point. I was unable to continue acting to be a person I wasn't.

Facing the same video in 2018, I became completely convinced 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 throughout his existence. I wanted to transform myself into the person in the polished attire, performing under lights, and at that moment I understood that I had the capacity to.

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

I still have many of my feminine mannerisms, so people often mistake me for a homosexual male, but I'm comfortable with that outcome. I desired the liberty to explore expression following Bowie's example - and given that I'm content with my physical form, I can.