When a Medication Doesn't Work: My Experience with Caplyta

Before I share this experience, I want to address something many of you may be wondering about.

Over the past couple of months, I have been much quieter than usual. I have stepped back from work, social media, and many of the things I normally share. The truth is that my mental health has not been okay, and I needed to put myself first so I could get the help and support I needed.

As doulas, birth workers, parents, and caregivers, we often spend so much time taking care of everyone else that we forget we deserve that same care and compassion. This season has been a reminder that I am human too.

I am slowly making my way back. I am doing the work with my therapist, working closely with my doctors, taking my medications, and prioritizing my health so I can show up as the best version of myself for my family, my clients, and my community.

I am sharing this story not because I want sympathy, but because I believe in honesty. I believe that sharing our experiences can help others feel less alone. I also believe it is important to remember that every person you meet is carrying something you cannot see.

The person who seems distant may be struggling.

The person who cancels plans may be trying to survive the day.

The person who seems different may be fighting a battle you know nothing about.

We are all human. We are all carrying something.

So if there is one thing I hope you take away from this, it is this: be kind. Be patient. Lead with compassion whenever you can. You never truly know what someone else may be going through.

This is my story.

I was diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder 23 years ago when I was 14 years old. My life looked very different then. At the time, I didn't want to believe the diagnosis, and I didn't fully take it seriously. It wasn't until I was 21 that I began working regularly with a therapist and psychiatrist and started taking my psychiatric medications consistently.

Over the years, my mental health journey has continued to evolve. Following the birth of my daughter, I was also diagnosed with postpartum depression, anxiety, and OCD. I attended therapy off and on since then. I have been consistently engaged in therapy for the last seven years.

I do the work. I take my medications. I go to my appointments. I educate myself about the conditions I live with. I learn coping skills. I advocate for myself. I ask for help when I need it. And I keep moving forward, even when it is difficult.

When my psychiatrist suggested switching me to Caplyta, I was hopeful. It was a newer medication, and we were optimistic that it might be a better fit for me. Our goal was not only to help manage my symptoms but also to potentially reduce some of the other medications I had been taking for many years. Some of those medications carry long-term side effects that have been a concern for me, so the possibility of simplifying my medication regimen felt promising. Like many people living with a chronic mental health condition, I hoped this change might improve my quality of life and help me feel even more like myself.

My previous medication regimen wasn't perfect, but it allowed me to live my life. I enjoyed things. I had motivation. I could run my business, take care of myself, and be present for my family. I felt engaged in my life instead of simply moving through the motions.

Like many people living with bipolar disorder, I am always looking for ways to improve my quality of life. When a new medication is presented as an option that may help even more, it is hard not to hope that maybe this could be the one.

At first, it seemed like it was.

The first few weeks on Caplyta felt promising. I felt lighter. My brain felt calmer. I genuinely thought it was helping. I remember thinking that maybe I had finally found something that would work even better than what I had before.

Then things started changing.

At first it was subtle.

I became more disconnected from myself.

I stopped enjoying things.

Activities I normally loved started feeling empty. Spending time with people felt exhausting. I didn't want to be around anyone, even though I didn't actually want to be alone.

I began feeling emotionally numb.

Not sad.

Not happy.

Not angry.

Just numb.

It felt like someone had turned the volume down on my entire emotional world.

As the weeks went on, the numbness became something much bigger.

I started feeling like I wasn't myself anymore.

That is still one of the hardest parts to explain.

People would ask how I was feeling and I didn't have words for it.

I felt disconnected from my own thoughts.

Disconnected from my emotions.

Disconnected from the person I knew myself to be.

I kept describing it as feeling "unwelcome in my own brain."

My body felt anxious on the inside all the time. I wasn't having panic attacks on the outside. It was all inside my body.

My mind felt like it was racing and blank at the same time.

I was exhausted but could not relax.

I was sleeping, but it didn't feel restorative.

Everything felt wrong.

My family noticed.

Friends noticed.

Even my daughter noticed.

That was when I realized this wasn't something I could simply push through. It wasn't just something that was going to go away in a few more days.

The longer it went on, the worse it became.

Throughout this entire experience, I was not navigating it alone. My therapist and psychiatrist both knew what was happening. I was honest about my symptoms every step of the way. I was seeing my psychiatrist every two weeks, and we closely monitored what was going on. Even when I struggled to find the words to explain how I felt, I continued reaching out and asking for help.

I started questioning everything.

I found myself wondering if people were talking about me.

Wondering if people were looking at me differently.

Wondering if everyone could see whatever was happening inside my head.

I wasn't hearing voices.

I wasn't seeing things.

But I was becoming increasingly suspicious and uncomfortable in social situations.

My confidence disappeared.

My motivation disappeared.

My ability to function disappeared.

I couldn't focus.

I couldn't enjoy anything.

I couldn't find the energy to take care of myself.

One of the strangest symptoms happened when I looked in the mirror.

I could see my reflection.

I knew logically it was me.

But I didn't feel connected to the person looking back.

It felt like I was looking at a face instead of looking at myself.

The best way I can explain it is this:

I wanted to see someone there.

I wanted to feel like there was a person behind the reflection.

I wanted to feel like me again.

As the days went on, I became scared.

Not because I wanted to hurt myself.

I didn't.

I became scared because I had never felt this disconnected from myself before.

After weeks of getting progressively worse, I finally reached my limit.

The hardest part was that I kept hoping tomorrow would be better. I kept thinking maybe my body just needed more time to adjust. Maybe this was a temporary side effect. Maybe if I held on a little longer, I would feel like myself again. Instead, I continued feeling further and further away from the person I knew myself to be.

After many conversations with my psychiatrist, we made the decision to stop Caplyta and return to the medication regimen that had previously given me stability and allowed me to function. It was not a decision made out of panic. It was a decision made after carefully monitoring my symptoms and recognizing that things were continuing to move in the wrong direction.

Medication changes are complicated.

Bipolar disorder is complicated.

Mental health is complicated.

What I do know is that I felt like myself before.

And I did not feel like myself anymore.

I am sharing this because when I was at my lowest point, I found myself searching the internet looking for other people who had experienced something similar.

I needed to know I wasn't alone.

I needed to know I wasn't imagining it.

I needed to know that other people had experienced a medication helping at first and then becoming something very different.

One of the biggest lessons I learned through this experience is that it is okay to advocate for yourself. You know your baseline. You know what it feels like to be you. If something feels wrong, keep talking to your providers. Keep asking questions. Keep sharing what you are experiencing. Sometimes finding the right treatment is not about pushing through no matter what. Sometimes it is about recognizing when something is no longer helping and making a change.

This is not a post telling people not to take Caplyta.

Every medication affects every person differently.

I know there are people whose lives have been changed for the better by this medication.

I am genuinely happy for them.

This is simply my story.

Sometimes a medication works.

Sometimes it doesn't.

Sometimes it helps for a while and then something changes.

That doesn't mean you failed.

It doesn't mean your doctor failed.

It doesn't mean there is no hope.

It means you keep gathering information, keep advocating for yourself, and keep moving forward.

Today, I am starting to feel like myself again.

I am back on the medication regimen that previously helped me. I am feeling emotions again. I am finding moments of happiness again. The numbness is beginning to lift.

I am still healing. I am still finding my footing. My therapist and I have decided to meet twice a week until I feel fully grounded and back to myself. I am continuing to work closely with my psychiatrist as my brain and body readjust.

This is not the end of my mental health journey. I still have work to do. I still have therapy to attend. I still have medications to take. I still have coping skills to practice.

But for the first time in weeks, I can see the path forward.

For the first time in weeks, I can look in the mirror and see myself again.

I am not 100% yet, but I am coming back to myself.

And after everything I have been through these past several weeks, that feels like a victory worth celebrating.