I Was Convinced Myself to Be a Homosexual Woman - David Bowie Made Me Realize the Actual Situation

In 2011, several years before the renowned David Bowie display launched at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I came out as a homosexual woman. Up to that point, I had exclusively dated men, one of whom I had wed. By 2013, I found myself in my early 40s, a newly single caregiver to four kids, making my home in the US.

At that time, I had begun to doubt both my sense of self and attraction preferences, looking to find understanding.

I entered the world in England during the early 1970s - pre-world wide web. When we were young, my companions and myself lacked access to Reddit or digital content to consult when we had inquiries regarding sexuality; rather, we sought guidance from music icons, and throughout the eighties, musicians were experimenting with gender norms.

Annie Lennox donned masculine attire, Boy George wore women's fashion, and pop groups such as popular ensembles featured performers who were publicly out.

I desired his slender frame and precise cut, his strong features and flat chest. I sought to become the artist's German phase

Throughout the 90s, I spent my time operating a motorcycle and wearing androgynous clothing, 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 undeniable attraction returning to the male identity I had previously abandoned.

Since nobody experimented with identity quite like David Bowie, I decided to spend a free afternoon during a seasonal visit visiting Britain at the V&A, anticipating that maybe he could guide my understanding.

I was uncertain specifically what I was seeking when I walked into the show - perhaps I hoped that by losing myself in the opulence of Bowie's identity exploration, I might, as a result, stumble across a insight into my true nature.

Quickly I discovered myself standing in front of a modest display where the visual presentation for "Boys Keep Swinging" was playing on repeat. Bowie was performing confidently in the front, looking stylish in a charcoal outfit, while positioned laterally three accompanying performers wearing women's clothing crowded round a microphone.

Differing from the drag queens I had witnessed firsthand, these ladies didn't glide around the stage with the poise of inherent stars; conversely they looked unenthused and frustrated. Positioned as supporting acts, they were chewing and expressed annoyance at the tedium of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, appearing ignorant to their lack of enthusiasm. I felt a brief sensation of connection for the accompanying performers, with their thick cosmetics, ill-fitting wigs and too-tight dresses.

They gave the impression of as awkward as I did in women's clothes - irritated and impatient, as if they were longing for it all to end. Just as I understood I connected with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them ripped off her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and unveiled herself as ... Bowie! Surprise. (Understandably, there were further David Bowies as well.)

At that moment, I was absolutely sure that I wanted to rip it all off and become Bowie too. I desired his lean physique and his precise cut, his defined jawline and his flat chest; I aimed to personify the slim-silhouetted, Berlin-era Bowie. Nevertheless I found myself incapable, because to authentically transform into Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Declaring myself as gay was one thing, but transitioning was a much more frightening possibility.

It took me further time before I was prepared. During that period, I did my best to adopt male characteristics: I stopped wearing makeup and threw away all my skirts and dresses, trimmed my tresses and started wearing men's clothes.

I sat differently, changed my stride, and modified my personal references, but I paused at medical intervention - the possibility of rejection and remorse had caused me to freeze with apprehension.

After the David Bowie show completed its global journey with a stint in New York City, five years later, I went back. I had experienced a turning point. I was unable to continue acting to be an identity that didn't fit.

Standing in front of the identical footage in 2018, I knew for certain that the problem didn't involve my attire, it was my physical form. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a male with feminine qualities who'd been presenting artificially all his life. I desired to change into the individual in the stylish outfit, moving in the illumination, and then I comprehended that I had the capacity to.

I booked myself in to see a medical professional soon after. It took another few years before my personal journey finished, but none of the fears I feared materialized.

I maintain many of my traditional womanly traits, so others regularly misinterpret me for a gay man, but I'm OK with that. I desired the liberty to explore expression like Bowie did - and given that I'm content with my physical form, I can.