How Many Times Have I Tried to Kill Myself

I washed clothes today. I don't have a washing machine, so I packed up my dirties and sped off to the laundromat. After the wash, I stood and watched my clothes roll around in the dryer, and I realized the rolling of my clothes resembled my life. A constant and consistent turning. The sun comes up. The sun goes down. I wake up and do the same things day after day, week after week, and year after year. I wish I could stop my life for a moment and gather my thoughts. I wish I could have been able to plan out my life and life choices before those choices were needing a decision.
How many times have I tried to kill myself? Five. I believe the answer is five. But I am fifty-five, so I'm sure that I may have forgotten one or two. And I am pretty much just sitting and waiting for the next time I will feel the need to end my life. It's a part of my cycle like my clothes rolling around and around in the dryer. Killing myself has been something that has permeated, saturated, and impregnated my life. Of course, I have thought about killing myself more than I have tried.
The first time I tried to kill myself, I was seven years old. I tried to get hit by a car. I was at school, so I walked off and into the street at recess. The cars drove around me, honking. A teacher caught me, and we sat on the curb watching the cars drive by while she asked me why I wanted to get hit. I told her I was sad because I didn't have any friends. We continued to sit on the curb when recess was over until my mother showed up and took me home.
The next time I tried to kill myself, I was in the county jail. I'm an insulin-dependent diabetic, so I refused to take my daily dose of insulin; after a week, I passed out and woke up in the hospital, shackled to the bed.
The third time I tried to kill myself, I cut my wrist with a razor. It didn't work. I didn't bleed long enough, but I still have the scar.
The fourth time I tried to kill myself, I was in a maximum security prison in Missouri. The prison was surrounded by an electrified fence, so one morning, I put on all my prison clothes and climbed over two razor wire fences to get to the electrified fence, but those motherfuckers turned off the juice.
The last time I tried to kill myself was only a few years ago. I had broken my arm and needed surgery for internal fixation with plates. I was given opioids when I left the hospital. Those pills were so strong, that I refused to take them and just suffered, but I had the prescription refilled, and one day I took them all. Those pills had me down and out for several days until the effects faded.
Like my clothes in the dryer, my life goes around and around and around. And I wonder why am I still here? There is nothing about me that's special. I have failed at everything. I have no power or influence. I am not married. I don't have children. And I don't have family or friends. If I died today, I would be put in a pauper grave.
At times, life, to me, is a prison I would like to be free of. I don't believe in God. I have no religious affiliation, so death would simply be the end. There is nothing that connects me with living, but yet, around and around I go. The sun comes up. The sun goes down. I wake up and do the same shitty things day after day, week after week, and year after year.
Next up, Why I have had déjà vu most of my life. Or Why I don't wear shoes.