The Turning Leaf Journal

Modern Anorexia
By Annie O’Brien

Josephine Marie Bedard claimed she hadn’t eaten in seven years. You and I both know that’s probably not true, but it was the 1880s. This is not to say people back then were foolish and easily conned. They had faith in different things and experienced different phenomena than we do today. If we told a Victorian family that one of the richest, most famous women in our current era gained her fame from releasing a sex tape, their jaw would fall to the floor. They might ask why she wasn’t burned at the stake. Or stoned. Or at least exiled from proper society and disowned by her father. Today, if you told us you watched this wealthy, household name’s sex tape, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to respond which one– Paris or Kim? Similarly, in the 1880s, if you told a Victorian family in the 1880s about a girl who hadn’t eaten in seven years, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for them to ask the same question: which one?

“Fasting girls,” or adolescent women who claimed to starve themselves for months or years, flourished between the fourteenth and twentieth centuries. The fourteenth-century Italian saint Catherine of Siena, for example, began to starve herself after her oldest sister died in childbirth and her parents resolved to marry the younger daughter to the widower. Not having it, Catherine fasted for the rest of her life, surviving on water, vegetables, and the holy host until dying of starvation at 33. She had terrible stomach pains for her whole life.

At the same time as Italy’s Catherine of Siena, the English anchoress Julian of Norwich, a mystic living in permanent seclusion, allegedly only survived on Jesus because he was the “precious food of all true life.” 

400 years later, in late 1860s Wales, nine-year-old Sarah Jacobs refused to eat and drink. Her parents took advantage of this refusal, touting that their daughter had not eaten in two years and still survived. Eventually, nurses tested the claim, supervising the girl for five days; she ate no food, and, at the end of the fifth day, she died. It had all been a ruse; her parents had fed her just enough to stay alive, and, when it came time to test the theory, chose starving their daughter over letting her live. They were convicted of manslaughter. 

Less than a century later, in 1920s Bavaria, mystic Therese Neumann claimed a saint told her the eucharist– a beige, cardboard-tasting wafer some Catholics believe is the literal body of Christ– was the only necessary food. Like Sarah Jacobs, nurses rushed to supervise Therese to verify the claim. By the end of the observation period, she had gained five pounds. The nurses decided she was a fraud who, like Sarah, was secretly fed by her father. 

Josephine, a 19-year-old, French-Canadian girl, was one of many: a good catholic girl who did not need food. Like many of these girls, she was about to face her maker.  

In the late 1880s, medical officials brought her from her hometown in Maine to Boston. Not for treatment or further testing, but she was to be a “curiosity” at the city’s Nickelodeon Museum. The Nickelodeon paid Josephine $100 a week, for four weeks, for her to act as an exhibit in a museum, ogled at my spectators. Unlike many other fasting girls, Josephine had rosy cheeks and a plump, active figure. Her appearance, along with general scientific knowledge, added doubt to the claim that she hadn’t eaten in seven years. 

Like many other fasting girls, a doctor supervised Josephine to verify her claim. Dr. Mary Walker, the supervising physician, said she had irrefutable proof that Josephine was a fraud who ate “as heartily as anyone in Boston.^” Dr. Mary Walker claimed she found a doughnut with a bite taken out of it in Josephine’s pocket. Further, Walker claimed she left three pieces of fried potato on a platter in a room with Josephine. She left the room, leaving Josephine alone with the dish. Allegedly, when Walker returned, one of the potatoes was gone. Josephine had a handkerchief in her mouth. Walker accused Josephine of taking the potato. Josephine broke down and cried.

When I read this story, all I thought was: shit, I would too if someone made it their mission to prove I ate when I was suffering from anorexia. 

My first exposure to these “fasting girls” came through Emma Donoghue’s 2016 book, The Wonder. It’s a historical fiction book inspired by Sarah Jacobs’s story. Donoghue tells about a “fasting girl” in Ireland and the nurse who watches her. On her website, Donoghue reflects on the cases of these fasting girls. They weren’t quite medieval saints, but they weren’t quite “modern anorexics” either.

Donoghue tells the story from the perspective of the nurse hired to expose the young girl. It’s not the story of a child’s emotional distress. It’s a story about exposure, about capitalizing and then destroying a young woman’s performance. The fasting girls of yore, “modern anorexics,” and the character in The Wonder go against traditional expectations of women. In the past, Catholic women were expected to take the eucharist. Fasting girls overstepped this expectation, making it not just taking the eucharist but only taking the eucharist. 

Even today, an ideal body for women is slim. Thus, women are expected to eat less and be okay with it. Women embrace “girl dinner,”– dinner as a snack-like assortment of things– because it’s how they live comfortably. A few pieces of cheese. A few crackers. A few vegetables and maybe a sweet treat. It’s palatable, for many, so they don’t complain and can go about their lives. If you’re a “modern anorexic,” grazing, feeling pressured to eat less to stay slim, isn’t palatable. It’s difficult. It’s painful. Because it’s difficult, you go against the expectation. You starve. You binge. You lose control. You put on a show. You’re exposed. You make yourself inedible to society. Since no one can stomach you, they watch you and wonder. Everyone knows women aren’t supposed to eat that much, stay slim. Why do you have to make it such a problem? They talk about you.

Like when society got its hands on women like Kim Kardashian’s and Paris Hilton’s respective sex tapes. They were on the Hollywood scene, surrounded by men, posing with sexy baby faces for the tabloids. They were supposed to be having sex, it was implied from the photographs and the behavior. But when you see it– their bodies on a screen, doing what most young starlets do– that’s when it goes too far. Seeing their performance is inedible. 

It doesn’t matter if it’s having sex or not eating or eating too much: if you make a peep about what you’re supposed to do, society can’t eat you. So they’ll talk about you, tear it apart. Capitalize and destroy. Expose.

I read The Wonder during my freshman year of high school. It was 2018. I grabbed the book as soon as it came out in paperback. I was already deep into my own food issues at that point. I remember the starving main character’s calves swelled, limbs bruised, and her hair was thin.  I wasn’t in treatment yet. I was running, fidgeting, and eating a healthy combination of a tablespoon of feta and romaine lettuce for lunch every day. I knew I had a problem, and I knew I would go to therapy– eventually. I wasn’t thin enough yet. I still felt rosy-cheeked, plump, and active. And I was enjoying myself, discovering how little I could eat compared to everyone else, how deep the valley between my collarbone and shoulder could get, and how much of a fuss I could cause for my parents, friends, and teachers. I decided I would go to treatment when I got ugly– with bruised legs, ballooned calves, and hair so thin you could see my scalp. 

It has been seven years since I read The Wonder, six years since I went to treatment, and three years since I’ve considered myself “healed.” I’ve read a lot about fasting girls in that time, and a lot about medieval saints and mystics. I’m still trying to figure out what separates me from medieval saints and fasting girls to make me one of the “modern anorexics.” 

I don’t want to argue with anyone about whether these girls actually had anorexia nervosa. I’m not a diagnostician. Based on what I’ve read, I feel it in my bones that they did. If you talk with anyone who has an eating disorder– or food issues if they prefer not to put a label on it– most of them, if they have any skill at perceiving the outside world, will tell you they can tell when someone is like them. For the most part, I can observe someone’s behavior around food, listen to what they say about it, and discern whether they have an eating disorder or just don’t want their outfit for the dance that weekend to be tight. 

I don’t feel all that different from either one of them. Sure, I’m not mourning my sister like Catherine of Siena or isolating like Julian of Norwich or being slaughtered by my parents like Sarah Jacobs or being secretly fed by my father like Therese Neumann or being ogled at in museums like Josephine Marie Bedard. But I see aspects of my experience in each of those women, and in dozens of other women I didn’t mention. When I think about it, my experience with anorexia doesn’t feel modern at all. It just feels ancient, unoriginal, and desperate.

Deep feelings began my behavior– self-hatred, depression, anxiety– but knowing others watched helped nurture the spark. I enjoyed the performance. As much as I hated my body, I liked being talked about. Not “she looks good” or “she got so much thinner this year.” No. I enjoyed the ugly; that’s how I could tell they were watching. The people who questioned me– asked me how much I had eaten at lunch, told me I didn’t run fast enough, or asked if I’d really fainted. These were the people who questioned my faith. These were the people who would pay a dime to see me at a museum or pay for a nurse to supervise my meals. The validation that brought the fasting girls to fame brought me similar validation.

Nineteenth-century doctors saw self-imposed starvation appear frequently, especially in white American and European women of the middle and upper classes. Like most things that afflicted women, the doctors regarded it as a form of hysteria. It was noted and hidden, talked about among psychologists and psychiatrists but never the public. Even as recently as the 1980s, researchers were trying to convince the public that anorexia wasn’t a new disease.

The cases of anorexia the public knew about always had a religious slant. Once someone who suffered intermixed their desire for thinness, acceptance, and attention with Christ, they aligned themselves with medieval saints of the past. When the saints starved themselves, they usually called it anorexia mirabilis. It was a god-granted miracle that these women didn’t eat, surviving only on their love for the Lord. These women used Catholicism to justify their behavior, allowing them to be celebrated for having a mortal mental illness.

There was nothing mirabilis about my experience with anorexia, but there was something religious about it. There were rituals: how far to run, squeeze my wrist bones when I felt anxious, and take Biotin capsules each morning when my hair eventually did thin. There were rules: no eating before 10, no eating at school, and always leaving at least half of the plate untouched. I’d confess my sins– all I’d eaten that day– to a floral notebook I kept under my bed and rub my hands over my ribs to remind myself I hadn’t been that bad. My rituals, rules, and ways of begging for forgiveness were my cult.

It was good I had a new cult. Because my own rules agreed terribly with the rules of Catholic school. 

We would have to go to mass in the middle of the school day. Communion would arrive as always. I wasn’t a believer. When the priest would pass me the bread, I’d pretend to put it in my mouth, wrapping my fingers around the smooth, consecrated host and shoving it into the pocket of my blazer as I walked back to my pew. I couldn’t eat during the day, after all.

Our blazers never left our lockers for anything other than school events. The hosts sat in their pockets– their probable cardboard base material keeping them from growing moldy. By Ash Wednesday of my sophomore year, I had built up an impressive collection. I’d also grown quite weak and bruised and, while walking back from the altar with my host hidden in the palm of my hand, I stumbled. I stumbled and all of the hosts came crumbling out of my pocket. I hastily began to pick them up and shove them back into my pocket, but not before attracting several spectators. 

My friend bent down to further inspect what captured my attention on the floor. When she saw the dozen hosts lying discarded on the floor, she gasped. “What the hell, Annie? What are you doing?”

I felt like Josephine Marie Bedard, caught in my scheme and about to cry. I felt ashamed and desperate. I needed to confess. But how can you say in a Catholic church that you found a new God– one who will count calories with you and never make you doubt their existence because you feel the pain of it every day? Or, more simply, how do you say in a Catholic church how scared you are of something so earthly?  

“I’m an atheist!” I shouted. 

Suddenly, I had a new performance. Not only was I anorexic, but I was an atheist. I could be looked at, ogled for another thing. I couldn’t stop my eating habits– I didn’t yet have the tools– but I could add another act to my show.

I’ve always been stunned at how much people can get away with under the guise of religion. People have used religion to excuse controlling another’s bodies, marriage, and even bombing another’s country. Religion, too, has been used to excuse anorexia. Using religion to excuse this self-imposed starvation may not carry as high stakes for society as requiring a birth, but, if you’ve ever suffered from or watched someone suffer from anorexia, then you know the stakes can feel like life or death on a personal level. 

You can’t ignore the fact that almost all of these starving girls are Catholic. Practicing Catholicism doesn’t require much engagement with food. If you’re practicing and devoted, then you believe in transubstantiation; at Eucharist, the one time the church’s rituals revolve around food, you don’t even think you are eating any food, just gnawing on Christ’s flesh and taking a sip of his blood.

I went to my first Passover seder last April. My roommate’s Jewish. She figured if she couldn’t celebrate with her family, she wanted to be surrounded by her college friends. I was shocked at how much wine and food were involved in the ceremony. We paused between readings to place an orange, apples, and matzah on a tray, and I have no recollection of what it all meant because we also paused to finish glass after glass of Manischewitz. It was great fun. 

After celebrating, I asked if she wanted to celebrate any more holidays with friends. If I enjoyed myself at this one, why stop there? Why not encourage my roommate to throw more parties so I could get drunk on the sugary wine she bought with her parent’s credit card? 

“I’m not thinking about celebrating other Jewish holidays with friends,” she said. “I would do Passover again, but the other ones I celebrate aren’t all that fun. We fast, you know.”

“Oh,” I said, half disappointed I wouldn’t get the chance to gorge myself on sugary wine for another six months and half in awe of having a religion with established rules around food.

Maybe then you wouldn’t have to make up your own.

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Hailing from the suburbs of Philadelphia, emerging writer Annie O’Brien is a third-year Creative Writing and English major at George Washington University. Her published work includes pieces taking a humorous look at history, reflecting on pop-culture, and an advice column in her university’s newspaper, The Hatchet. When she isn’t writing, Annie can be found wandering her local bookstore or watching the latest episode of Vanderpump Rules on her couch. Read more of her work her Substack– Pretty Smart With Annie O’Brien– and check out her advice column– Ask Annie.

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Artwork Source: untitled, Carl Scharwath

Artist Statement: My artistic practice is a dynamic exploration of the intersection between painting and photography, where traditional boundaries dissolve and new forms emerge. Rooted in a deep appreciation for both mediums, my work seeks to challenge the conventional definitions of each, inviting viewers to reconsider their perceptions of reality and representation.

In my process, I begin by capturing moments through the lens of my camera, selecting scenes that resonate with me on a visceral level. These photographic snapshots serve as the foundation upon which I build, but they are merely a starting point. Through the transformative power of paint, I transcend the limitations of the photographic image, imbuing it with layers of emotion, texture, and narrative.

Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 175+ journals selecting his writing or art. Carl has published three poetry books and his latest book “Ebb Tide Reflections,” features poetry, short stories and photography (World Inkers, NYC.) Carl has four photography books, published by Praxis and CreatiVingenuitiy. His photography was exhibited in the Mount Dora and Leesburg Centers for the Arts. Carl is currently an art editor at Glitterati and former editor for Minute Magazine. He was nominated for three The Best of the Net Awards (2021-23) and two different 2023 Pushcart Nominations for poetry and a short story.

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Works Referenced and Further Reading:

Donoghue, Emma. The Wonder. New York: Little Brown, 2016.

———. “The Wonder: A Personal Note.” Emma Donoghue, 2017. https://www.emmadonoghue.com/books/novels/the-wonder.html.

Espi Forcen, Fernando. “Anorexia Mirabilis: The Practice of Fasting by Saint Catherine of Siena in the Late Middle Ages,” April 1, 2013. https://ajp.psychiatryonline.org/doi/10.1176/appi.ajp.2012.12111457.

Lawson, Carol. “Anorexia: It’s Not A New Disease.” The New York Times, December 8, 1985.

Leake, Natasha. “The Chilling True Story of The Real-Life ‘Fasting Girls’ Who Inspired Netflix’s The Wonder.” Tatler, November 18, 2022. https://www.tatler.com/article/the-wonder-true-story-fasting-girls. 

The Boston Daily Globe. “Who Took the Cold Potato? Dr. Mary Walker Says the Fasting Girl Bit a Doughnut.” April 9, 1889.

Webber, Webber. The Strange Case of Josephine Marie Bedard, a Young Lady, Stout And Active, Who Has Eaten Nothing For Seven Years. The Most Remarkable Case The World Has Ever Known. Boston: M.H. Keenan, 1889. https://archive.org/details/strangecaseofjos0000webb_d5d0/mode/2up.