I Believed Myself to Be a Gay Woman - David Bowie Helped Me Realize the Actual Situation

In 2011, several years before the acclaimed David Bowie display debuted at the prestigious Victoria and Albert Museum in England, I came out as a gay woman. Until that moment, I had exclusively dated men, one of whom I had entered matrimony with. After a couple of years, I found myself approaching middle age, a freshly divorced parent to four children, residing in the United States.

At that time, I had commenced examining both my sense of self and attraction preferences, seeking out understanding.

Born in England during the early 1970s - pre-world wide web. During our youth, my companions and myself lacked access to Reddit or video sharing sites to reference when we had curiosities about intimacy; instead, we turned toward music icons, and throughout the eighties, artists were playing with gender norms.

The iconic vocalist donned masculine attire, The Culture Club frontman wore feminine outfits, and musical acts such as well-known groups featured members who were openly gay.

I craved his lean physique and sharp haircut, his defined jawline and masculine torso. I wanted to embody the artist's German phase

Throughout the 90s, I passed my days operating a motorcycle and wearing androgynous clothing, but I reverted back to conventional female presentation when I decided to wed. My spouse relocated us to the America in 2007, but when the union collapsed I felt an irresistible pull revisiting the manhood I had previously abandoned.

Given that no one played with gender quite like David Bowie, I opted to use some leisure time during a warm-weather journey back to the UK at the museum, hoping that perhaps he could provide clarity.

I lacked clarity specifically what I was looking for when I entered the show - maybe I thought that by submerging my consciousness in the richness of Bowie's identity exploration, I might, as a result, stumble across a clue to my true nature.

Before long I was positioned before a small television screen where the film clip for "Boys Keep Swinging" was playing on repeat. Bowie was moving with assurance in the primary position, looking polished in a charcoal outfit, while to the side three supporting vocalists wearing women's clothing gathered around a microphone.

Unlike the entertainers I had encountered in real life, these characters didn't glide around the stage with the self-assurance of born divas; instead they looked unenthused and frustrated. Relegated to the background, they had gum in their mouths and rolled their eyes at the tedium of it all.

"Boys keep swinging, boys always work it out," Bowie sang cheerfully, apparently oblivious to their reduced excitement. I felt a brief sensation of connection for the accompanying performers, with their heavy makeup, uncomfortable wigs and too-tight dresses.

They seemed to experience as awkward as I did in feminine attire - irritated and impatient, as if they were hoping for it all to end. At the moment when I realized I was identifying with three men dressed in drag, one of them tore off her wig, removed the cosmetics from her face, and unveiled herself as ... Bowie! Surprise. (Naturally, there were further David Bowies as well.)

Right then, I was absolutely sure that I wanted to remove everything and become Bowie too. I craved his slender frame and his defined hairstyle, his angular jaw and his flat chest; I sought to become the slim-silhouetted, artist's Berlin phase. However I was unable to, because to truly become Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Coming out as queer was one thing, but transitioning was a significantly scarier possibility.

I needed additional years before I was willing. During that period, I did my best to become more masculine: I ceased using cosmetics and eliminated all my women's clothing, shortened my locks and started wearing men's clothes.

I changed my seating posture, changed my stride, and changed my name and pronouns, but I stopped short of surgical procedures - the chance of refusal and second thoughts had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

Once the David Bowie display finished its world tour with a stint in Brooklyn, New York, five years later, I went back. I had reached a breaking point. I couldn't go on pretending to be something I was not.

Facing the identical footage in 2018, I knew for certain that the problem wasn't my clothes, it was my biological self. I wasn't a masculine woman; I was a feminine man who'd been wearing drag throughout his existence. I desired to change into the person in the polished attire, performing under lights, and at that moment I understood that I was able to.

I made arrangements to see a physician soon after. It took further time before my transformation concluded, but not a single concern I anticipated came true.

I still have many of my feminine mannerisms, so others regularly misinterpret me for a queer man, but I'm OK with that. I desired the liberty to experiment with identity like Bowie did - and now that I'm at peace with myself, I have that capacity.