At
the end of 2015 and beginning of 2016, far away from home in a
strange country, I'd pass sleepless hours watching Youtube videos,
in particular John Lordan's channel, Lordan Arts. John's channel
focusses on missing person's cases an unsolved crimes, and his series on Elisa Lam are amongst the most thorough and well-researched out there.
The
Chinese-Canadian student's strange and loney death on the roof of a
grubby, run down hotel in the wrong part of Los Angeles haunted me. I
would
wake and think
I could see
Elisa standing in the dark corners of the bedroom. I was in a strange country, like she was. Most nights, I was alone in a gated apartment complex, but I didn't always feel safe there.
Elisa's
case still frequently features in internet chat forums to this day, though
the general consus has moved away from the haunted hotel / demonic
possession / foul play angle into the more plausible and likely
theory that in the grip of a break from reality, Elisa died as she tried to hide from
an imagined persuer in the rooftop water tank.
As
the time has passed since I wrote about Elisa, I have come to agree
with this theory. I had already discussed how Elisa's mental health
may have made her vulnerable while she was travelling, and initially
I thought this may have been because she would have been an easy
target for a predator. Now I think that Elisa did
become
unwell on her trip and made her way to the roof and into the tank of
her own accord.
The doors to the roof weren't locked and alarmed as hotel staff claimed they were. A
group of Chinese film makers proved this when they travelled to LA,
checked into the hotel and easily accessed the roof via a fire
escape.
The water tank Elisa was found in did have a lid, but it
wasn’t especially heavy and it obviously wasn’t locked. The hole it covered was
also wide enough for someone to be able to climb through.
The
‘preternatural’ elements that made this case so strange are really
not so strange under scrutiny. The one that’s talked about the most
is the elevator camera footage of Elisa behaving oddly; waving her
arms about, peeking into the corridor, pressing all the buttons and
hiding in the corner. I think it'sobvious now that she's talking to someone created enitirely in her own head; not a murderous guest, or a ghost, or an evil spirit.
The
bookshop owner that said Elisa’s behaviour was ‘normal’ the
day she came into the shop to buy gifts for her family.
Her
clothes in the tank with her, covered in a fine sandy substance.
What
she was doing on the fifteenth floor in the early hours of the
morning.
But
then there’s the other guests she was sharing a dorm with, who were
so concerned by her odd behaviour, they asked for her to be moved to
another room. There’s
her missing medication.
And
there’s this: she was a real person, with a real family and real
friends. She wasn’t a ghost, or a host for a demon, or a medical
experiment test subject gone wrong, or a spy. She was an unwell
woman. Lone women are already vulnerable. Mentally ill, lone women
(mentally ill people full stop) are even more vulnerable. She was far
from home. She had no-one around her to know that her bahviour wasn’t
normal and to look after her.
The
time has come where it feels appropriate to delete the blogs that I
originally wrote about Elisa, so that we can lay her to rest
properly.
I'd
still like to finish with the post that I finished my very last
installment on Elisa's story though, because I think it's so very
fitting. I do still think about Elisa from time to time - she reminds
me so much of my travels to strange countries, and her experiences
with feeling at odds with herself resonated with me. My journey
with her ends here, though. Goodnight, Elisa.
Elisa,
This
will seem stupid to many people, because I am writing to a dead
person.
I
don’t know you and we have never met or even knew of each other’s
existence until your tragic fate. When I first heard of the news and
saw your picture. I don’t know why, but I felt torn and drawn to
you. I became obsessed in finding news articles about the case. I
tried but could not let it go. I became obsessed in finding more
about you.
Now,
after reading your tumblrs, tweets, and this blog. I am at a loss for
words because I feel like I am literally staring at a mirror of
myself. Your words are the very words I’ve spoken (and typed) in my
life. Your questions are ones I’ve asked myself so many times. Your
fears, regrets, and even the joys and cheers. I understand the cause
of your depression, as it is for me… the unfulfillment of two
greatest desires: to be loved, to be understood.
You are a perfectionist, and you are looking for perfect love. And so much that to the world you seem odd and out of place, this letter. Because at the very least, you would know… someone does understand. But even in death, you have helped others. Because knowing you, now I know… someone understands me. My whole life, I’ve asked that question too… if only… if only someone understands me. Understands what I am going through. The irony of life that I finally found someone who does, and she is gone. My only regret is… not finding you sooner. *sigh* God bless you. Good journey…
