I Thought Myself to Be a Homosexual Woman - David Bowie Made Me Discover the Reality

In 2011, a couple of years before the acclaimed David Bowie show opened at the famous Victoria and Albert Museum in England, I publicly announced a gay woman. Up to that point, I had exclusively dated men, including one I had married. Two years later, I found myself in my early 40s, a recently separated parent to four children, residing in the America.

During this period, I had commenced examining both my personal gender and romantic inclinations, seeking out answers.

I entered the world in England during the beginning of the seventies - before the internet. During our youth, my peers and I didn't have social platforms or video sharing sites to reference when we had curiosities about intimacy; rather, we turned toward music icons, and in that decade, musicians were experimenting with gender norms.

The Eurythmics singer donned masculine attire, The Culture Club frontman embraced feminine outfits, and pop groups such as well-known groups featured artists who were proudly homosexual.

I craved his lean physique and defined hairstyle, his strong features and flat chest. I wanted to embody the artist's German phase

Throughout the 90s, I lived riding a motorbike and adopting masculine styles, but I reverted back to conventional female presentation when I chose to get married. My partner moved our family to the United States in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an powerful draw returning to the masculinity I had once given up.

Considering that no artist played with gender to the extent of David Bowie, I decided to use some leisure time during a summer trip visiting Britain at the gallery, anticipating that maybe he could guide my understanding.

I didn't know specifically what I was looking for when I stepped inside the display - perhaps I hoped that by losing myself in the extravagance of Bowie's gender experimentation, I might, consequently, discover a hint about my personal self.

I soon found myself standing in front of a modest display where the film clip for "the iconic song" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was moving with assurance in the primary position, looking polished in a slate-colored ensemble, while off to one side three supporting vocalists dressed in drag gathered around a microphone.

Unlike the entertainers I had witnessed firsthand, these female-presenting individuals failed to move around the stage with the self-assurance of natural performers; conversely they looked unenthused and frustrated. Positioned as supporting acts, they chewed gum and rolled their eyes at the monotony of it all.

"Boys keep swinging, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, seemingly unaware to their diminished energy. I felt a brief sensation of connection for the accompanying performers, with their thick cosmetics, awkward hairpieces and restrictive outfits.

They gave the impression of as awkward as I did in female clothing - frustrated and eager, as if they were yearning for it all to be over. Just as I understood I connected with three men dressed in drag, one of them removed her wig, wiped the makeup from her face, and unveiled herself as ... Bowie! Shocker. (Understandably, there were additional David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I became completely convinced that I desired to rip it all off and transform like Bowie. I wanted his lean physique and his sharp haircut, his angular jaw and his male chest; I aimed to personify the lean-figured, artist's Berlin phase. However I found myself incapable, because to genuinely embody Bowie, first I would require being a man.

Announcing my identity as queer was a different challenge, but gender transition was a significantly scarier possibility.

I required further time before I was ready. In the meantime, I did my best to embrace manhood: I abandoned beauty products and eliminated all my skirts and dresses, cut off my hair and commenced using men's clothes.

I sat differently, modified my gait, and adopted new identifiers, but I paused at hormonal treatment - the possibility of rejection and remorse had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

Once the David Bowie exhibition concluded its international run with a stint in the American metropolis, five years later, I revisited. I had arrived at a crisis. I was unable to continue acting to be a person I wasn't.

Positioned before the identical footage in 2018, I knew for certain that the problem wasn't my clothes, it was my biological self. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a man with gentle characteristics who'd been presenting artificially throughout his existence. I wanted to transform myself into the person in the polished attire, moving in the illumination, and at that moment I understood that I could.

I scheduled an appointment to see a medical professional not long after. It took further time before my personal journey finished, but none of the things I anticipated came true.

I continue to possess many of my feminine mannerisms, so others regularly misinterpret me for a gay man, but I accept this. I sought the ability to experiment with identity following Bowie's example - and given that I'm content with my physical form, I am able to.