By the time I realized that the grumpy voice in the handwriting in my journal, the one who had given up on love and was into just ending it all, right now or within the next few months was in fact the Lone Power, and not entirely an aspect of myself that I wished to cherish now and forever, I'd gotten pretty well fragmented. While on the phones to an ever more weirded out succession of people, Death and I talked to each other in my journal. It was my handwriting that she used. The argument from within is always the most persuasive.
...getting morose. Not a good idea. ...I need serious hugs. Help. I'm afraid. I don't want to die.
...so is there a danger of dying?
Yes. With me, there [always/often] is.
( You are the Lone One, and a Part of Me. I cannot deny your Gift... )