I Was Convinced I Was a Lesbian - David Bowie Made Me Realize the Actual Situation

Back in 2011, several years prior to the celebrated David Bowie exhibition launched at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK capital, I came out as a lesbian. Previously, I had solely pursued relationships with men, with one partner I had married. Two years later, I found myself approaching middle age, a newly single caregiver to four kids, residing in the United States.

At that time, I had begun to doubt both my gender identity and sexual orientation, searching for understanding.

My birthplace was England during the beginning of the seventies - prior to digital connectivity. During our youth, my friends and I didn't have online forums or digital content to consult when we had curiosities about intimacy; rather, we turned toward pop stars, and throughout the eighties, musicians were playing with gender norms.

The iconic vocalist sported boys' clothes, The Culture Club frontman adopted feminine outfits, and bands such as well-known groups featured performers who were publicly out.

I craved his slender frame and sharp haircut, his defined jawline and masculine torso. I wanted to embody the Berlin-era Bowie

In that decade, I lived operating a motorcycle and adopting masculine styles, but I reverted back to conventional female presentation when I decided to wed. My husband moved our family to the US in 2007, but when the marriage ended I felt an irresistible pull revisiting the manhood I had earlier relinquished.

Since nobody experimented with identity to the extent of David Bowie, I decided to spend a free afternoon during a summer trip visiting Britain at the gallery, with the expectation that maybe he could provide clarity.

I lacked clarity specifically what I was looking for when I entered the show - possibly I anticipated that by immersing myself in the opulence of Bowie's gender experimentation, I might, consequently, stumble across a clue to my own identity.

I soon found myself standing in front of a small television screen where the visual presentation for "Boys Keep Swinging" was playing on repeat. Bowie was strutting his stuff in the foreground, looking stylish in a charcoal outfit, while off to one side three accompanying performers dressed in drag gathered around a microphone.

Unlike the entertainers I had seen personally, these characters failed to move around the stage with the self-assurance of born divas; instead they looked bored and annoyed. Placed in secondary positions, they were chewing and rolled their eyes at the tedium of it all.

"Boys keep swinging, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, apparently oblivious to their lack of enthusiasm. I felt a momentary pang of understanding for the backing singers, with their heavy makeup, uncomfortable wigs and restrictive outfits.

They appeared to feel as ill-at-ease as I did in feminine attire - irritated and impatient, as if they were yearning for it all to end. Precisely when I recognized my alignment with three individuals presenting as female, one of them tore off her wig, wiped the makeup from her face, and unveiled herself as ... Bowie! Revelation. (Understandably, there were further David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I knew for certain that I aimed to remove everything and emulate the artist. I wanted his lean physique and his defined hairstyle, his strong features and his male chest; I sought to become the slim-silhouetted, artist's Berlin phase. And yet I couldn't, because to truly become Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Declaring myself as queer was one thing, but gender transition was a much more frightening outlook.

I needed several more years before I was willing. Meanwhile, I tried my hardest to become more masculine: I stopped wearing makeup and threw away all my skirts and dresses, shortened my locks and started wearing men's clothes.

I changed my seating posture, modified my gait, and adopted new identifiers, but I stopped short of hormonal treatment - the potential for denial and remorse had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

After the David Bowie show completed its global journey with a stint in Brooklyn, New York, five years later, I revisited. I had reached a breaking point. I was unable to continue acting to be something I was not.

Facing the same video in 2018, I became completely convinced that the problem wasn't about my clothing, it was my biological self. I wasn't a masculine woman; I was a feminine man who'd been in costume all his life. I wanted to transform myself into the man in the sharp suit, dancing in the spotlight, 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 personal journey finished, but not a single concern I worried about occurred.

I maintain many of my female characteristics, so individuals frequently misidentify me for a homosexual male, but I accept this. I wanted the freedom to play with gender as Bowie had - and given that I'm comfortable in my body, I am able to.