"There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you." - Maya AngelouYes. And no.
There are stories you keep close to your breast because they're your trump cards. Your investment, the thumbscrews you can tighten at will. They're versions of one and the same event or circumstance, and the things you'll omit or stress depend on the person you have in front of you.
Are you serious and honest, always, every day, at every hour? Or do you rather... present different angles of yourself? Think of a story, any story. You tell it to your sister, your father, your lover, your subordinates, your closest friends. You divulge it to your confessor, your bankers, your creditors, your accusers, your defenders. I promise you: you will never tell it the same way twice, for it
will change, depending on whom you're addressing.
The one thing that may hurt, from time to time, is that you forget which version was the one closest to the truth, for the pesky thing has grown twisted with each telling.
And then there are stories I've never told anyone because they were unthinkable, unspeakable. Those have changed as well, over time. They've been weathered by hatred, nurtured by fear, seasoned by my anger, and at last, whittled down to nothing, lost the moment they could have taken shape. They don't hurt anymore. Not overly much, I think.
Besides; who should I tell them to.