I Believed That I Identified As a Homosexual Woman - The Music Icon Made Me Uncover the Reality

Back in 2011, several years before the acclaimed David Bowie display debuted at the prestigious Victoria and Albert Museum in England, I publicly announced a gay woman. Up to that point, I had only been with men, including one I had wed. Two years later, I found myself in my early 40s, a freshly divorced caregiver to four kids, residing in the US.

During this period, I had started questioning both my sense of self and romantic inclinations, searching for answers.

My birthplace was England during the dawn of the seventies era - before the internet. When we were young, my friends and I lacked access to Reddit or digital content to consult when we had curiosities about intimacy; rather, we looked to celebrity musicians, and throughout the eighties, musicians were experimenting with gender norms.

The iconic vocalist wore masculine attire, The flamboyant singer adopted girls' clothes, and bands such as well-known groups featured members who were proudly homosexual.

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

During the nineties, I passed my days operating a motorcycle and wearing androgynous clothing, but I went back to traditional womanhood when I opted for marriage. My partner relocated us to the America in 2007, but when the union collapsed I felt an irresistible pull back towards the manhood I had previously abandoned.

Given that no one experimented with identity as dramatically as David Bowie, I decided to spend a free afternoon during a summer trip visiting Britain at the gallery, hoping that maybe he could guide my understanding.

I didn't know specifically what I was seeking when I stepped inside the display - possibly I anticipated that by immersing myself in the extravagance of Bowie's identity exploration, I might, in turn, stumble across a hint about my own identity.

Before long I was standing in front of a small television screen where the music video for "Boys Keep Swinging" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was strutting his stuff in the foreground, looking polished in a charcoal outfit, while to the side three accompanying performers wearing women's clothing clustered near a microphone.

Unlike the performers I had witnessed firsthand, these female-presenting individuals weren't sashaying around the stage with the poise of inherent stars; conversely they looked disinterested and irritated. Positioned as supporting acts, they chewed gum and showed impatience at the boredom of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie voiced happily, appearing ignorant to their lack of enthusiasm. I felt a brief sensation of understanding for the backing singers, with their heavy makeup, ill-fitting wigs and too-tight dresses.

They gave the impression of as ill-at-ease as I did in female clothing - irritated and impatient, as if they were hoping for it all to conclude. At the moment when I realized I was identifying with three men dressed in drag, one of them removed her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Revelation. (Naturally, there were further David Bowies as well.)

At that moment, I was absolutely sure that I aimed to remove everything and transform like Bowie. I craved his lean physique and his defined hairstyle, his defined jawline and his masculine torso; I aimed to personify the slim-silhouetted, Bowie's German period. Nevertheless I couldn't, because to authentically transform into Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Announcing my identity as queer was a separate matter, but gender transition was a considerably more daunting possibility.

It took me further time before I was willing. During that period, I made every effort to become more masculine: I ceased using cosmetics and eliminated all my feminine garments, trimmed my tresses and began donning masculine outfits.

I sat differently, modified my gait, and changed my name and pronouns, but I halted before hormonal treatment - the possibility of rejection and remorse had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

Once the David Bowie show concluded its international run with a stint in the American metropolis, five years later, I returned. I had experienced a turning point. I was unable to continue acting to be something I was not.

Positioned before the identical footage in 2018, I became completely convinced that the issue wasn't my clothes, it was my body. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a feminine man who'd been wearing drag throughout his existence. I desired to change into the person in the polished attire, dancing in the spotlight, and now I realized that I was able to.

I booked myself in to see a physician not long after. The process required another few years before my transition was complete, but none of the things I worried about materialized.

I still have many of my feminine mannerisms, so people often mistake me for a queer man, but I'm OK with that. I sought the ability to play with gender following Bowie's example - and given that I'm content with my physical form, I am able to.