History - Part 6

So now I'm at the point where I have to look back and figure out if trying to commit suicide equals being depressed.
Which is hard. I don't know. I've read a lot about depressions, personality disorders and whatsnot in the past few weeks (or rather reread).
Why did I try it. Twice even. I can't even recall when the first time was. I lived at my parents still. It was between my 12th and 14th year, I think. I had a small bottle, a square one, with silver ink. Very toxic it said on the label. So I drank it. Fell asleep and didn't die. Puked and dirtied the bed sheet. Couldn't get the stains out. Ink y'know. I was scared shitless my mother would find out. Can't recall if I felt sick even. I was too worried about having to replace the sheet and getting rid of the stained one. Worried I would actually become sick from it. Being sick was bad. The one time I was sorta flu-ish and had to stay home my mother made me drink a whole pot of camomile tea and was visibly annoyed at me needing attention for being sick. I never went sick again.
Why did I drink the ink. Two things. I think. I thought my mother would be glad if I was gone. Most my life with my parents I really really tried to please my mother. Just once to do something good, to make her happy. But I never could. She never was. The most I got was her not getting angry at what I had done. Which mostly was my main concern after I noticed I wasn't dead and wouldn't die either. 'Please, don't make her know what I did.'
She often said I was a nail on her coffin. I probably was.
The second time I tried was when I was 15 I think, maybe 16. I had stolen and saved up all kinds of medication. I can remember I wanted to wait till I had 100 pills, I probably should have, but we were impatient. Nor did we really know what we did or what we had. And I should have died then. They told me if they would have followed procedures I would have. Instead someone rushed me to the hospital. I woke up for real after a few days. Back in 3-west. The hospital didn't want to keep me, since everyone was scared of me. Apparently I had screamed and yelled at everyone, kept ripping out infuses, throwing tantrums all over. I had yelled at my parents I didn't want to see them.
My mother somehow had wanted to be stopped by police when they were speeding to the hospital after the news of my attempted suicide, so they could have a police escort. I still feel sorta odd about that. 'Everyone should know we're heading to the hospital breaking traffic-laws to show we care a lot!' I don't know.
I can't remember the time in the hospital, apparently I was in a coma for some time. The last I remember after I had taken the pills (which took like ages, since there were so many), was that I was trying to read a book on my bed and then thought if I would climb on the roof they would never get me down in time. Apparently I did that, but I also came down when they told me to for dinner. Where I collapsed before reaching the chair.
The why is easier here, since I remember better. I didn't want to die. I wanted to end the way I was living. And I didn't see any other way.
So was I depressed at those times?