I Believed That I Identified As a Lesbian - The Music Icon Made Me Discover the Reality

In 2011, a few years ahead of the renowned David Bowie display launched at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK capital, I came out as a lesbian. Until that moment, I had only been with men, one of whom I had entered matrimony with. By 2013, I found myself approaching middle age, a newly single mother of four, living in the America.

During this period, I had commenced examining both my sense of self and sexual orientation, seeking out understanding.

Born in England during the dawn of the seventies era - pre-world wide web. When we were young, my peers and I were without Reddit or video sharing sites to consult when we had questions about sex; rather, we sought guidance from celebrity musicians, and in that decade, artists were challenging gender norms.

Annie Lennox donned male clothing, The flamboyant singer adopted women's fashion, and bands such as well-known groups featured performers who were openly gay.

I wanted his slender frame and sharp haircut, his defined jawline and male chest. I wanted to embody the artist's German phase

Throughout the 90s, I passed my days operating a motorcycle and adopting masculine styles, but I returned to conventional female presentation when I decided to wed. My husband relocated us to the US in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an irresistible pull revisiting the masculinity I had earlier relinquished.

Considering that no artist challenged norms quite like David Bowie, I chose to devote an open day during a warm-weather journey back to the UK at the museum, hoping that perhaps he could help me figure it out.

I didn't know specifically what I was looking for when I stepped inside the exhibition - perhaps I hoped that by submerging my consciousness in the extravagance of Bowie's identity exploration, I might, in turn, encounter a hint about my true nature.

Quickly I discovered myself standing in front of 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 positioned laterally three supporting vocalists in feminine attire gathered around a microphone.

Differing from the performers I had seen personally, these female-presenting individuals weren't sashaying around the stage with the confidence of inherent stars; conversely they looked disinterested and irritated. Placed in secondary positions, they were chewing and showed impatience at the tedium of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie sang cheerfully, appearing ignorant to their lack of enthusiasm. I felt a momentary pang of understanding for the accompanying performers, with their thick cosmetics, uncomfortable wigs and restrictive outfits.

They seemed to experience as ill-at-ease as I did in female clothing - annoyed and restless, as if they were hoping for it all to conclude. Precisely when I recognized my alignment with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them tore off her wig, wiped the makeup from her face, and revealed herself to be ... Bowie! Surprise. (Naturally, there were further David Bowies as well.)

At that moment, I was absolutely sure that I desired to shed all constraints and emulate the artist. I desired his slender frame and his precise cut, his angular jaw and his flat chest; I sought to become the slender-shaped, Berlin-era Bowie. Nevertheless I couldn't, because to authentically transform into Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Coming out as gay was a separate matter, but transitioning was a much more frightening outlook.

I required further time before I was prepared. In the meantime, I made every effort to adopt male characteristics: I abandoned beauty products and discarded all my skirts and dresses, trimmed my tresses and commenced using men's clothes.

I changed my seating posture, walked differently, and adopted new identifiers, but I stopped short of surgical procedures - the possibility of rejection and remorse had left me paralysed with fear.

When the David Bowie exhibition completed its global journey with a presentation in Brooklyn, New York, five years later, I returned. I had experienced a turning 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 became completely convinced that the issue didn't involve my attire, it was my body. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a feminine man who'd been presenting artificially since birth. I desired to change into the individual in the stylish outfit, dancing in the spotlight, and then I comprehended that I could.

I scheduled an appointment to see a doctor not long after. It took further time before my personal journey finished, but none of the fears I worried about materialized.

I maintain many of my female characteristics, so individuals frequently misidentify me for a homosexual male, but I'm OK with that. I sought the ability to play with gender as Bowie had - and given that I'm content with my physical form, I have that capacity.