When my mother died - she was too young to die and though I had left the nest and had young children of my own, I was still too young to be an "orphan" (my dad had died 3 years before). My depression became worse - I hadn't yet "broken completely" so I didn't even realize it, I guess, so hadn't reached out for help. When I did crash and had to seek help, and found out I was bipolar, I realized I wasn't to "blame" for how I was; that I was more than the frenetic,  dark, worthless  person I considered myself; and most of all that there was help. Things started to change. It is a long road, better managed now. In looking back, I'm convinced that my mother was a very depressed person but never had sought help. .
I'm trying to capture that in this simple poem. I hope I have.