What a clear plastic bag taught me about surviving, healing, and learning to live.
In boarding school, my Longchamp was full of essentials.
I carried pencils for Brit Lit and trigonometry. Pens and highlighters were for history. A shawl helped with the drafty classrooms, while a gargantuan Smartwater bottle got me through the day.
Most importantly, though, I carried semi-sweet chocolate chips.
Later, when I had a corporate job as an editor, my bag told a different story. I was so cluttered upstairs that I could not appreciate the value of a well-worn, well-packed bag.
My brain was bereft of intention, anticipation, and preparation.
I was surviving by the minute, much less living by the day.
Then I went to rehab.
Suddenly, my rehab essentials looked very different.
The Clear Plastic Bag You Get in Rehab
Your starter bag was clear plastic. Stadium-regulation.
It was the kind of bag required when your purse exceeds 6 by 4 inches, or whatever the limit is.
Inside was The Big Book, the Bible of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Its language sits firmly in the era of the group’s founding in the 1930s and carries through the feminine mystique years. Much of that language has remained intact.
One could liken it to a Seventh-day Adventist sermon or a guide to surviving the apocalypse.
And that apocalypse is the day you relapse.
The Big Book is dense, heavy, and serious. It is the type of book that feels capable of boring holes straight through plastic.
Along with the assigned reading, we received the Narcotics Anonymous book. There was also a brochure for the facility and its six-week crash course on how to live without alcohol, grief counseling included.
Then came a college-ruled notebook.
We also received a lanyard with the “likeness” snapped of each of us on intake day.
Not my best look.
Finally, there was a Tervis tumbler with our names printed on it, as if we were on some strange curated brand trip.
Those were the official rehab essentials.
It did not take long, however, for the bag to become something much more personal.
When a Rehab Bag Starts Becoming Your Own
The clear plastic bag slowly became a customizable carry-on.
It was an analog purse, a home away from home, and eventually even a spiritual reference library.
At first, I was convinced I might be brainwashed instead of helped. Therefore, I threw in a Bible study from home in case the teachings felt too far “out of the box.”
After a couple of days, though, I started noticing what the other women carried.
They rifled through their bags and pulled out crossword puzzles, doodles, yarn, and, of course, candy.
Then I watched Kat pop a blue SweeTART into her mouth.
Mine immediately started watering.
She noticed me staring from her peripheral vision.
I was desperate for one.
After tasting one of those concentrated sugar pills, I made a mad dash to the merch store before lunch.
Unfortunately, we were limited to two candies per purchase. So I started stashing them like I was seven years old at summer camp and my counselor had brought Reese’s back from her day off.
Liver spot, teeth rot, girl boss.
Before long, our entire group became so obsessed with candy that there was a SweeTARTS shortage in the small mountain town.
SweeTARTS gate.
The Small Comforts That Matter in Recovery
Our influence, along with Kat’s persistence, eventually won us a case of emotional support seltzers.
Since the fall of 2024, they have been selling San Pellegrino to the patients.
By then, the facility had started to feel like a home away from home.
We ordered our own rehab essentials from Amazon and sent them to our updated home address. Crochet needles arrived. So did pens and stuffed animals.
Over time, every woman developed a bag full of things that were entirely her own.
The bags all looked identical from the outside. Still, somehow, you could always tell which one belonged to which lady.
Mine started filling with color.
I began drawing with bright pastels in a way I never had before. During a dark period in my life, those colors revealed an internal world that was still surprisingly bright.
Meanwhile, SweeTARTS and Starburst satisfied the oral fixation.
They collected at the bottom of my bag.
Actually, you will still find candy in my bag today.
The Things We Carried Through Rehab
Notes, bracelets, letters from loved ones, rings, tokens, tea bags, and contraband books were constantly on my person.
There was sparkling water you might otherwise splurge on at a restaurant.
I also carried a three-ring binder full of printed lecture slides. Thanks to Hurricane Helene, I received that binder not once, but twice.
I took notes feverishly.
At times, intellectualizing the material protected me from the hurt of the heart. If I could understand everything, perhaps I would not have to feel all of it.
Outside, though, there were other kinds of lessons.
I picked up rocks by the river after runs on the trail, a path marked by the Twelve Steps.
My counselor gave me crystals for protection.
At the end of the day, I consulted cards derived from The Four Agreements. They sat nestled between the candy and colored pencils.
Was I impeccable with my word?
Had I taken anything personally?
Did I do my best?
Had I made assumptions?
These questions became part of the things I carried too.
Recovery Can Live in Small Objects
Blooms from early fall dried at the bottom of the bag.
Cinnamon tea bags accumulated in the corners. We swiped them before the tea and coffee disappeared from the cafeteria for the day.
There were small and personal rebellions everywhere.
Only we knew what they meant.
Even if the bags themselves were see-through.
Meanwhile, I was rewiring my brain by lugging that clear plastic bag outside. I would touch grass, watch the geese by the water, and carry all these little pieces of my new life with me.
Some of my rehab essentials were assigned.
Others were purchased.
A few came from people I loved.
Some were picked up from the ground.
Yet together, they began to tell the story of who I was becoming.
What the Things in Your Bag Say About You
Just like the interior of a home, a bag can be a valuable observation tool.
It reveals the way someone ticks.
The leather or suede. The hardware. The pockets.
Then there are the things hidden inside: scents, shades, mints, receipts, tickets, and empties.
All of them are time tellers.
What you carry can say something about whether you are merely surviving or finally learning how to live.
In boarding school, I carried chocolate chips.
During my corporate life, I carried clutter and chaos.
In rehab, I carried SweeTARTS, crystals, colored pencils, and offerings from the river.
Each version of my bag reflected a different version of me.
My Most Important Rehab Essential
By the end of treatment, the clear bag no longer felt institutional.
It had become mine.
Yes, it contained books, notes, candy, tea, crystals, letters, and tiny pieces of the world outside. But it also carried evidence of what had happened inside me.
That may be the most important thing about rehab essentials.
Sometimes the objects themselves are ordinary. A notebook is still a notebook. A piece of candy is still candy. A rock from the river is still just a rock.
But during recovery, ordinary things can become markers of time, comfort, connection, and change.
Today, I no longer carry that clear plastic bag everywhere I go.
Still, pieces of it remain.
There may be Starburst at the bottom of my current bag. There are reminders of people I love and things I have survived.
And now?
I carry proof that I made it through.
What about you? What do the things you carry say about the life you are building?
About Mary Peeples
Mary Peeples is a writer, former editor, theatre kid, and Southerner who writes about the small edits that compound over a lifetime.
From ending generational cycles to discovering genuine joy, she explores what it means to build a life after burning bridges, rising from those ashes, and embracing the creative doors that opened in sobriety.
You can find more of her writing in her newsletter, Little Edits Atelier.
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