I have had an unusual series of experiences and consequent realizations which may be helpful. It’s a long story, so please bear with me:
I was hit by a car when I was 8, and almost died. By age 11 I had what would be obvious today as PTSD; but there was no such diagnosis in 1967, and I was unfortunately misdiagnosed as "schizophrenic". Over the next 7 years, I had heavy-dosage phenothiazines, 26 hospitalizations (including state hospitals, and including 1 rape by an orderly), and a total of 118 shock treatments (ECT and ICT).
By the time I turned 18, I was a zombie out of options, and was no longer covered by my parent’s medical insurance. I went under the care of a social worker who claimed to be able to cure schizophrenia over a period of years if I gave her complete control over my life, and if I discussed it with no one outside of her "group". I stayed with her for the next 31 years, all the while believing her that I was "getting better but still needed" her care. Then I left during a midlife crisis, thinking I certainly must have improved enough and learned enough by then to make a life for myself as an independent adult.
But I soon found out that what the social worker had taught me during all those years of "reparenting therapy" didn’t work outside of her closed environment. Within 3 years, I had to enter the county’s mentally ill homeless program. They re-tested me and discovered that, instead of having schizophrenia, I’d had PTSD which had since festered over the decades into what was now "severe major situational double depression, with pseudodementia, without psychotic features". (The "double" depression came from the fact that my parents had both recently died.)
I now live in an apartment complex that caters to mentally ill seniors. I rarely leave my apartment, since I clearly don’t fit in with normal adults. But I have 2 "no-how knacks" that let me contribute to society: one is composing music (I can’t read or play anything, but I make up music in my head without even trying, so I use a computer program that lets me enter individual notes sound-for-sound, instrument-by-instrument, for months or years until I have a complete composition that I can play back for other people, so they can hear what I hear between-the-ears); and the other knack is writing social commentaries and related posts to sites such as this one.
Thanks to these 2 abilities, I find meaning in life. Thanks to the maximum-allowed dosage of Wellbutrin, I maintain an ample will to live. And thanks to having realized that I could choose my own beliefs and values, I live life according to my own moral code.
So I consider my life to be a genuine success in the face of unusual adversity — by no means the worst of circumstances, but unusual to the point where some people who inquire about my past actually refuse to believe me when I tell them the ugly truth. (In one case, a supposed friend adamantly claimed that my history "couldn’t be possible" because I hadn’t killed myself.)
Which finally brings me to your question.
In the "independent living" complex where I live, there are some residents who have histories that seem to me far more tragic than mine, but who are stable enough that we can openly and safely share our pasts. And there are other residents whose grip on reality is so tenuous that I would never share my history with them, for fear that it could quite foreseeably harm them or incite them to harm themselves.
Of course, I discuss my past with my psychiatrist, and with my one close friend; and my few surviving relatives already know the truth about my past, so there’s no risk of harm in talking about it with them.
But, to me, when it comes to disclosing a personal truth which could seriously affect another person, there is a clear moral imperative to seriously consider the particular person; the particular situation; the particular truth; the particular points, benefits, and costs of sharing that truth; and the particular ways you might go about sharing that truth — before you decide whether even to intimate the existence of such a truth.
Obviously, if you have access to a mental health practitioner, ask for advice about sharing that truth. Otherwise, if you have any doubts about sharing it, then don’t.