Forgiveness as the path of least resistance

I am not the world's most forgiving human being. I am obstinate, and sort of surly on occasion, and I yearn for incredibly simple problems that can be solved by hitting someone or something with a large stick enough times. When I was younger I was violently inclined. Aggression was part of my personal program from birth, and it was channeled counterproductively by life in general. In my old age I've moved towards a more thoughtful, restrained approach to life. I am so restrained that by the time I am thirty I plan on grappling my way to Nirvana (yes, that is a joke, and I do know that grappling is highly un Nirvanan like ) (hence the joke). But in general I am more Baodaccia than Ghandi, as far as icons go.
I also believe in the fine art of writing people off. There are some individuals, no matter how well intended, who wreak personal destruction and emotional chaos everywhere they go. They can't be reformed because they really don't see the problem. They believe in what's known as the "mememememe" centered model of the universe. They also do not buy into occham's razor, and will attribute all of their personal flaws to someone else no matter how complicated a scenario they have to build to support this idea. Hence if they do see the problem, clearly someone else created it.
That said, you would think that I would write off the person who beat and tried to kill me when I was a child. The person so insane that I was convinced at one point that I had better learn to defend myself because the day might come when I would have to kill her or be killed by her. You would think that I would wisely do that. And I demand credit for trying. It didn't work out. It is hard, after all, when one is under age, to get away from your sister.
Yes, my sister. My nearly a decade older than me sister, who my mother was convinced despite all evidence was good child care. My mentally ill sister who as it turns out was bipolar, suffering from pshychotic episodes, and had multiple personalities. All of the above, or just enough of a combo to mimic the symptoms of all of the above. I knew that there was something wrong with her before the real fur started to fly-I saw an episode of 6o minutes on bipolar disorder and tried to tell my Mother. I thought she just didn't believe me, so I pushed the issue. I figured out later that no amount of pushing would get her to help, because she just didn't want to believe me. The sad truth is that my Mother is a stupid person. She thinks that things really disappear if you just don't look at them.
I got to be the target because in my sister's eyes my life was "normal". Parts of her, hateful, spiteful, child parts of her wanted to kill me out of pure jealousy. I owe some inner bitch named Savannah a doorknob to the gut and some shredded toes. It was a wild era. She was institutionalized not long after I called my Mother at work (as I had done to fruitlessly beg for help many times before) and informed her in a voice dripping with purest hate that my sister had just strangled my until I passed out, and that I knew that she wasn't a parent but that she was all I had, so she was GOING to come home and act like one even if she had to fake it. I was fourteen. My sister moved out, left town, and came back to live next door. I avoided her. She hugged me and I remember thinking that her hair smelled rank to me. My mother had to force me to invite her to my 15th birthday party. I ended up babysitting her kids to buy necessities, like a coat, because it was the only way to survive my Mother's less than benign neglect. The weird thing was, my sister didn't remember. Not any of it. And eventually I didn't want to tell her, because in spite of myself I liked this new patched up version of my sister and I didn't want to set back her recovery. It caused me more pain to try to NOT forgive her than it did to love her, so I went with what was easiest. Sometimes forgiveness is the natural state of things and you just have to go with it.