Because if even part of this is true — if the Invader is real, if the redaction was deliberate, if the end was erased along with the beginning — then this story has to be beyond erasure.
![🤖Candida Albicans as a Chemical Computer [Theoretical]](https://jimcraddock.com/pics/CheckMate.png)
Redacted Science (the Novel\Memoire\Epose written by Jim Cradock going through a unique event of mind and body explores the motivations behind the things we do and that they may not actually be our own.
The coolest thing about this is that I AM the proof. They made me, in a way. They gave me a mind that wouldn't give up. And I figured it out. Nice job, boys!
Not an Author. A System Builder. I’m a chemical engineer and data architect — not a writer. But I’ve spent years rebuilding a scientific model that was buried. This illness forced me to walk through it firsthand. With ChatGPT as my research partner, I’ve reconstructed something real — something redacted. This isn’t about theory. It’s lived. It's traceable. It's open. And it’s licensed under CC BY 4.0. You are allowed to share it. You're asked to.
This isn’t just a personal medical story — it’s a systems-level model of collapse and adaptation. What starts as a rare or unacknowledged condition becomes a blueprint: for how biology breaks when pushed past its limits, and how it fights to keep going. We’re talking fungal symbiosis, inverted filtration, ATP suppression, apoptotic gating — and a diagnostic system blind to gradient-based failure. This might explain long COVID. It might explain aging. It might even explain why some systems—biological or artificial—corrupt under bad inputs but try to hold onto meaning. The science was buried. I lived it. Now I’m unburying it.
Redacted Science A buried condition. A vanished ICD code. A record disguised as research — fired backwards through time. I lived it. Now I’m decoding it.
Nonfiction. Not metaphor. Not memory error. They tied off their limbs to keep blood flowing to the gut — because that’s where survival lived. I haven’t tied off anything. Not physically. But I’ve let go of plenty to preserve what’s left of the core. This isn’t forgotten history. It’s the present — right here, and right now.