By the time I was diagnosed, I was in my mid-teens and clashing with my Mom, so when it was made official, I think she took it simply as an explanation for why we weren't getting along, despite me being the one who asked for medical help. Give the kid some pills and a therapist, problem solved. So, I never felt comfortable talking to her about my problems, and when I was a little older and moved out at 17, I think she figured it was a non-issue.
In more recent years, I've attempted to talk to her more frankly about what I deal with, in part because I feel like it's gotten worse the past few years and I sometimes worried I may be near a point that I can't live independently. At first, she was resistant, trying to explain it away as everything from Crohn's Disease to simply "feeling blue" over certain situations. It's taken a long time to get her to understand that the situations are often caused by my depression and anxiety, not the other way around, and it's still very much a struggle. At this point, she's kind of reversed her previous attitude about it, though it usually requires me to give the same explanations over and over again, but it's better than before. She only realized a couple months ago that I have several now-faint scars on my left arm from my experimenting with cutting as a teen.
Friends have pretty much given me the impression that discussing it is strictly off-limits and is considered whining, so I just don't bring it up and nobody really calls, emails, or texts me anymore. I marked that I've been ignored or shunned due to how friends react and how my Mom was largely indifferent and passive-aggressive for over a decade.