She drinks.
It is not so much to ease the strain of her current existence as it is to feel something—anything. Of course, the pain is dulled. At some moments, it is muted by a factor of ten. She spends those moments wondering if she is wrong: there must be something she could have done differently.
The hour or so afterward is exhausted bringing herself back to reality—sinking to the floor of her shower while water pounds down upon her; increasing the ventilation of the environmental controls in her quarters and sitting directly under the air duct in front of the viewport while glowering out at the blank abyss.
Once she is grounded, she spends an epoch attempting to get back to that place—the place where her pain is deadened to a dull roar. Where—although she has damned one hundred fifty souls to live within this void—she is still allowed this quiescence, even if she is wrong.