I Thought Myself to Be a Gay Woman - The Legendary Artist Made Me Uncover the Truth

Back in 2011, several years prior to the acclaimed David Bowie display launched at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I declared myself a gay woman. Until that moment, I had only been with men, including one I had entered matrimony with. After a couple of years, I found myself in my early 40s, a recently separated mother of four, making my home in the US.

Throughout this phase, I had begun to doubt both my personal gender and romantic inclinations, looking to find answers.

I entered the world in England during the dawn of the seventies era - pre-world wide web. During our youth, my friends and I were without online forums or digital content to reference when we had inquiries regarding sexuality; conversely, we turned toward pop stars, and throughout the eighties, artists were experimenting with gender norms.

The Eurythmics singer donned masculine attire, The flamboyant singer wore girls' clothes, and pop groups such as Erasure and Bronski Beat featured artists who were publicly out.

I desired his slender frame and sharp haircut, his strong features and male chest. I aimed to personify the Bowie's Berlin period

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 partner relocated us to the America in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an powerful draw back towards the male identity I had earlier relinquished.

Considering that no artist experimented with identity to the extent of David Bowie, I opted to spend a free afternoon during a seasonal visit returning to England at the V&A, anticipating that possibly he could guide my understanding.

I was uncertain exactly what I was seeking when I walked into the display - possibly I anticipated that by submerging my consciousness in the extravagance of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, in turn, encounter a clue to my own identity.

Quickly I discovered myself facing a compact monitor where the visual presentation for "Boys Keep Swinging" was continuously looping. Bowie was performing confidently in the primary position, looking polished in a charcoal outfit, while positioned laterally three accompanying performers in feminine attire clustered near a microphone.

Differing from the entertainers I had encountered in real life, these ladies didn't glide around the stage with the confidence of born divas; conversely they looked unenthused and frustrated. Relegated to the background, they were chewing and showed impatience at the monotony of it all.

"The song's lyrics, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, apparently oblivious to their reduced excitement. I felt a brief sensation of connection for the supporting artists, with their heavy makeup, uncomfortable wigs and constricting garments.

They seemed to experience as uncomfortable as I did in female clothing - frustrated and eager, as if they were yearning for it all to be over. At the moment when I realized I was identifying with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them tore off her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and unveiled herself as ... Bowie! Revelation. (Understandably, there were additional David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I became completely convinced that I aimed to shed all constraints and emulate the artist. I craved his lean physique and his defined hairstyle, his strong features and his flat chest; I aimed to personify the slim-silhouetted, artist's Berlin phase. Nevertheless I couldn't, because to genuinely embody Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Declaring myself as queer was a different challenge, but transitioning was a considerably more daunting possibility.

I required additional years before I was willing. During that period, I made every effort to become more masculine: I stopped wearing makeup and eliminated all my skirts and dresses, cut off my hair and started wearing male attire.

I changed my seating posture, walked differently, and changed my name and pronouns, but I paused at medical intervention - the possibility of rejection and remorse had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

When the David Bowie show completed its global journey with a stint in Brooklyn, New York, five years later, I returned. I had reached a breaking point. I couldn't go on pretending to be an identity that didn't fit.

Standing in front of the identical footage in 2018, I knew for certain that the issue wasn't about my clothing, it was my body. I wasn't simply a tomboy; I was a man with gentle characteristics who'd been in costume all his life. I wanted to transform myself into the person in the polished attire, moving in the illumination, and then I comprehended that I was able to.

I scheduled an appointment to see a medical professional not long after. I needed another few years before my transition was complete, but none of the fears I worried about occurred.

I continue to possess many of my female characteristics, so individuals frequently misidentify me for a homosexual male, but I'm OK with that. I wanted the freedom to experiment with identity like Bowie did - and now that I'm at peace with myself, I can.