I Thought That I Identified As a Lesbian - The Legendary Artist Enabled Me to Realize the Actual Situation

Back in 2011, a few years ahead of the acclaimed David Bowie display opened at the prestigious Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK capital, I declared myself a lesbian. Until that moment, I had only been with men, including one I had wed. After a couple of years, I found myself in my early 40s, a recently separated parent to four children, living in the US.

Throughout this phase, I had begun to doubt both my personal gender and romantic inclinations, seeking out clarity.

I entered the world in England during the dawn of the seventies era - pre-world wide web. During our youth, my companions and myself didn't have online forums or digital content to reference when we had inquiries regarding sexuality; conversely, we looked to pop stars, and throughout the eighties, musicians were challenging gender norms.

The iconic vocalist wore masculine attire, Boy George wore girls' clothes, and bands such as Erasure and Bronski Beat featured members who were openly gay.

I desired his lean physique and defined hairstyle, his defined jawline and flat chest. I sought to become the Berlin-era Bowie

During the nineties, I passed my days driving a bike and dressing like a tomboy, but I returned to femininity when I decided to wed. My husband moved our family to the United States in 2007, but when the union collapsed I felt an powerful draw back towards the manhood I had earlier relinquished.

Considering that no artist played with gender quite like David Bowie, I opted to spend a free afternoon during a summer trip back to the UK at the V&A, with the expectation that maybe he could guide my understanding.

I lacked clarity precisely what I was seeking when I walked into the exhibition - perhaps I hoped that by immersing myself in the extravagance of Bowie's gender experimentation, I might, in turn, encounter a insight into my true nature.

I soon found myself positioned before a compact monitor where the visual presentation for "that track" was playing on repeat. Bowie was performing confidently in the foreground, looking stylish in a slate-colored ensemble, while positioned laterally three backing singers wearing women's clothing crowded round a microphone.

Differing from the drag queens I had seen personally, these female-presenting individuals didn't glide around the stage with the self-assurance of inherent stars; conversely they looked disinterested and irritated. Relegated to the background, they chewed gum and expressed annoyance at the tedium of it all.

"Boys keep swinging, boys always work it out," Bowie sang cheerfully, appearing ignorant to their reduced excitement. I felt a momentary pang of understanding for the accompanying performers, with their pronounced make-up, awkward hairpieces and too-tight dresses.

They gave the impression of as uncomfortable as I did in female clothing - frustrated and eager, as if they were yearning for it all to conclude. At the moment when I recognized my alignment with three individuals presenting as female, one of them tore off her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Shocker. (Naturally, there were two other David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I was absolutely sure that I desired to remove everything and emulate the artist. I desired his narrow hips and his sharp haircut, his strong features and his flat chest; I aimed to personify the slender-shaped, Berlin-era Bowie. However I found myself incapable, because to authentically transform into Bowie, first I would require being a man.

Coming out as homosexual was one thing, but gender transition was a considerably more daunting possibility.

It took me additional years before I was prepared. During that period, I did my best to embrace manhood: I stopped wearing makeup and discarded all my women's clothing, shortened my locks and began donning men's clothes.

I sat differently, changed my stride, and modified my personal references, but I stopped short of surgical procedures - the chance of refusal and remorse had left me paralysed with fear.

Once the David Bowie exhibition completed its global journey with a stint in New York City, following that period, I returned. I had arrived at a crisis. I found it impossible to maintain the facade to be an identity that didn't fit.

Facing the identical footage in 2018, I was absolutely sure that the problem didn't involve my attire, 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 all his life. I desired to change into the individual in the stylish outfit, dancing in the spotlight, and then I comprehended that I could.

I booked myself in to see a doctor not long after. The process required another few years before my transformation concluded, but none of the fears I worried about came true.

I still have many of my feminine mannerisms, so others regularly misinterpret me for a queer man, but I'm comfortable with that outcome. I wanted the freedom to explore expression like Bowie did - and given that I'm content with my physical form, I can.